Aftershocks
by MacBedh
Summary: "Fine art brings out the passions" . . . and leads to danger and intrigue as MacGyver tries to solve a decades-old puzzle that has turned unexpectedly deadly. Aftermath to "The Ten Percent Solution".
1. gesture study 1

**Aftershocks**

- x -

**_gesture study_**

Darkness.

MacGyver couldn't tell at first whether he'd actually opened his eyes or not. He tried to touch his face and find out, and discovered his hands were secured behind his back – the unmistakable bite of handcuffs at his wrists was way too familiar.

Then the awareness of pain caught up with him on the road back to consciousness – a throbbing pain behind the eyes that would have been blinding if he'd been able to see in the first place, and a knot at the back of his skull that drove needles of fire into his brain when he tried to move his head.

_Oh, man. Clobbered in the head again. What happened this time? Can't remember . . ._

He was lying on his side, coarse carpeting rubbing against his face, vibrations and a sense of movement, and strong smells of rubber tires and engine grease surrounding him. _Car. Trunk. _He wasn't the only thing in the trunk; hard objects slid and bumped against him. _And we're moving. Where?_

_Why?_

_Owwww . . ._

- x -


	2. One: Post Impressionist

**Aftershocks**

**_One: Post-Impressionist_**

- x -

_****It's funny how you just don't see nearly as much of some people as you think you should. I don't see my grandpa as often as I really ought to – but I think about him so frequently I sometimes feel like he lives right next door. I hear his voice in my head, commenting on whatever's going on. Sometimes I try to ignore the comments, and I usually find out it's a bad idea._

_A few years back, when Pete and I left the DXS to throw our lot in with the Phoenix Foundation, Harry and I had only just reconnected after way too many stubborn, silent, wasted years. He didn't have much to say about the new job, but he seemed mostly pleased. Maybe he thought the work would be less dangerous._

_It was Ruth Collins who recruited Pete and me for Phoenix, but I hadn't seen a lot of her in the last couple of years. She had promised Pete that she wouldn't interfere – 'much' – and she was a lady who kept her word. And she had her own agenda, which mostly seemed to involve beefing up the Phoenix budget by shaking down rich people with bad consciences. She was real good at that. Somebody had to be._

_She always came down to LA in December to preside over the big Phoenix Christmas party . . . which I always avoided, but not because I don't like Ruth. I just don't like big parties.  
_

"It's the most unholy mess, is what it is."

MacGyver could clearly hear the patrician tones of Ruth Collins' voice while he was still out in the hallway. The sideways glance he darted at the mirror as he entered the opulent room was a purely automatic reaction; the remark couldn't possibly have been directed at himself. Ruth's personality might be forceful enough to sway the rest of the Phoenix Foundation's Board of Directors, but she couldn't actually see through walls or around corners. Probably.

Although if she could, it would be these walls: her own elegant house in the rarified neighbourhood of Presidio Heights in San Francisco, the unmistakable heart of her private empire. MacGyver had expected to feel awkward and out of place here, even though he'd been specifically invited – or, rather, summoned. But he'd been met at the door by Gregory, the Collins' driver, and the man's nonchalant air of confident and companionable ease had somehow conveyed reassurance along with welcome.

And Mac didn't look all _that_ out of place. His last haircut had been – well, never mind. But the suit jacket was fresh from the cleaners and had remained mostly unrumpled during the trip from LA to the Bay Area, and the dark trousers almost matched it. The shirt was clean, the tie wasn't crooked yet, and Ruth had specifically told him that a tux wouldn't be needed.

Apparently, she hadn't told Pete.

"MacGyver! Um . . . " Pete's broad smile of greeting became nonplussed, and Mac felt a moment's irritation. _How does he manage to look comfortable in that get-up, anyway?_ Pete looked natural and poised in his evening dress – he always did – and Mac had never been able to figure out how he managed it.

Ruth's sardonic voice cut through the awkward moment. "Don't give him any grief, Pete. I told him a suit and tie would suffice."

"I thought the reception was formal dress."

"He's the hero of the hour. I don't _want_ him to blend in."

Mac started to speak. "Ruth, I really wish – "

"That I'd let you keep a low profile? No. Your fairy godmother is _not_ going to grant that wish. You're the best leverage I've had in years, and I intend to make full use of you." She was enthroned in an armchair in the magnificently appointed study, surveying Mac with approval. "Thank you for coming all the way up here for this, MacGyver. I'm well aware that these events aren't your style, and I want you to know that I appreciate the effort." She beckoned him into the room. "And it's damned good to see you again. It's been far too long."

Mac grinned. "It's good to see you too, Ruth – you're looking terrific." Privately, he thought she looked more strained than he remembered – and older, which wasn't something he'd expected to see in Ruth Collins. Her immaculately coiffed hair gleamed snow-white, and the hands on the arms of the antique chair looked gnarled and frail, too delicate for the weight of the rings she wore. But her eyes were as bright and unrelenting as ever, and the energy that burned from her was undiminished by the passing years.

The mischief in her smile was also unchanged. "Flatterer." She picked up a slim, flat box from the ornate table beside her and held it out to him. "This is for you."

The box held a necktie. Mac took one brief look at the rich colours of the design and raised an eyebrow at Ruth. "You want me to wear this to the reception? Not missin' a trick in your propaganda routine, are you?"

A sudden gleam of satisfaction lit Ruth's eyes. "I take it you recognise the design."

"It's from that Van Gogh painting, isn't it? The one that was sold a few years ago to that guy from Australia – the big-shot business tycoon."

"_Irises_. Yes, exactly. You know, MacGyver, if you want people to believe you're a cultural Philistine, you shouldn't admit to knowing that kind of detail."

Pete snorted and turned away, covering his mouth to hide his laughter. Mac's eyes sparked. "Is it too late to claim I ran across the article in the paper while I was checking the hockey scores?"

"Far too late." Ruth settled back in her chair as Mac swapped neckties. "Very good. One look at you and the point will be made. _Irises_ is now safe in the hands of the Getty Museum in Los Angeles – that story ended happily enough, but by luck rather than decent planning. It's not every day that the art world recovers a treasure trove of Nazi war loot. We – _you _– have uncovered fifty-seven lost works of art, including a dozen undoubted Old Masters, and I want to rub everyone's noses in the prospect of losing them again if we don't plan ahead."

"Is that what you meant by leverage?" Mac looked at her as his fingers ran through the routine of knotting the tie. She noticed that he didn't need to look in the mirror; a quick glance to straighten it at the end was enough.

"Not exactly. You do realise the entire situation is the most unholy mess, don't you?"

_Got it. So that's what she was talking about earlier._ "How come?"

"It's going to be a nightmare just establishing provenance for the individual paintings, and a worse one determining rightful ownership. Every single piece has to be documented, identified, authenticated, assessed, and appraised, and the rightful owners determined and verified in spite of a dearth of reliable information – and contacted, which means located, after a particularly tumultuous half-century. Some families were entirely wiped out in the Holocaust – most have immigrated, and many now have different names."

Pete broke in. "It's going to take years, isn't it?"

"It could. And every piece carries its own burden of historical agony. Not to mention the staggering value of the finest pieces. The liability on every level is monstrous."

"And can you explain just why you want the Phoenix Foundation to take that on?"

"_What_?" Mac interrupted. "First I'd heard of it."

Ruth waved an irritable hand "Who else?"

"Um . . . " Mac gestured vaguely in turn. His fingers fluttered in empty air as he realised he didn't have an answer.

"Exactly. The world will at least be willing to trust our intentions and our integrity. More than that: if we can land the project, the collection will remain together while we're on the hunt for heirs."

Mac was nodding as he followed her. "If Phoenix doesn't handle it, is there anyone else who can? Anyone that everybody can trust?"

"That's just the point. I think the only other alternative will be to break up the collection, and assign a few pieces each to a long list of art historians and other specialists. They're all dying to get their hands on even a single canvas, of course, but none of them have anything to match our resources, not to mention our reputation. Fine art does tend to bring out the passions, and not necessarily the finer ones."

MacGyver winced and rubbed his head in painful memory. "Yeah, I noticed that."

"I've spent years nurturing our reputation as white knights, gentlemen. This is one of the best opportunities I've ever had, and I don't intend to waste it."

"So you're happy about the splash we made?" Mac dug his hands into his pockets, and tried and failed to suppress a grin.

"What kind of a ridiculous question is that?" Ruth retorted. "You're damned right I am. Aren't you?"

Mac gave an oversized shrug without removing his hands from his pockets. "Yeah, I'm kinda proud of it too." _Man, is that an understatement._ "So when are we gonna do something about the rest of it?"

Pete winced inwardly. He knew MacGyver rarely dwelt on past triumphs – his restless mind was always moving on to the next challenge. Mac often complained about being overworked, but whenever Pete tried to slacken the pace of incoming projects, he could count on Mac to be in his office within a few days, complaining with equal vehemence that he was bored.

And there had been a special glamour to the Brandenburg arrests: catching actual Nazi war criminals had to have been something straight out of Mac's boyhood dreams of heroism. With the initial excitement beginning to die down and the media moving on to the next big story, Pete knew MacGyver would have started to think about the aftermath of the Brandenburg case. He had been avoiding this conversation for days, ever since the report had come in from the Phoenix' legal department. He hedged. "The rest of it?"

Mac gave him a puzzled frown. "The conspiracy. The _map_, Pete! You remember the map? About the size of a wall, stuck full of little coloured flags showing who's on their payroll? All their records of a planned neo-Nazi takeover of the entire western United States, for Pete's sake!" Mac realised he was shouting. "Sorry, Pete."

Pete held up his hands helplessly. "MacGyver, I ran it past Legal."

Mac groaned, screwed up his face in exaggerated pain and looked up at the ceiling. "Aw, Pete, please. Do _not _do this to me. Not after what we went through – they had a shrine set up to _Hitler_, for pity's sake! _Don't_ tell me there's nothing we can do with all that!"

"Oh, there's plenty we can do!" Pete snapped. "We can open ourselves up to a whole string of crippling lawsuits – slander, defamation of character, harassment, frivolous charges – enough to sink the Foundation for good! MacGyver, we have no way of knowing what criteria Frau Brandenburg used when she marked someone down as being on 'their side'. For all we know, they were flagging every white male in the western US who happened to have a German name."

"Can't we at least check them out? Turn Research loose on the list? I bet Willis could turn up something . . . "

"Vigilante surveillance? Mac, I hate to point this out, but the Constitution guarantees that unless they do something illegal, they've got a right to their beliefs, no matter how much we disagree with them – "

"Yeah, Pete, I _know_. They can believe in any garbage they like, they can feed it to each other, they can brainwash half-educated kids with chips on their shoulders and send them out into the streets with baseball bats, they can wall themselves up in private compounds and stockpile enough firepower to knock over a bank, and we can't _touch_ them until after they actually _kill_ someone, or at least try to . . . and then only if we manage to _catch_ them . . . "

MacGyver suddenly realised that Ruth had been sitting silent even as the shouting match grew in volume. Her face was unreadable; something in her very stillness raised Mac's hackles. Her hands were folded in her lap, and the lamp beside her drew bright sparks from the stones in her rings. The gleam in her eyes was as bright and unmoving, and as cold and resolute.

Mac cut himself off in mid-tirade, and gave Pete a sheepish look. "Um . . . "

"Look, Mac, I know how you feel, and I'm sorry. If there was anything we _could _do . . . "

Mac rubbed his hands over his face and sighed, letting the familiar sound of Pete's well-meaning assurances flow past him, even though the words themselves were all but meaningless. There was never going to be anything that could be done – not if the suits in the legal department were calling the shots.

As the two men exchanged conciliatory smiles, Mac looked past Pete's open, frank face and met Ruth's shuttered gaze. She nodded, so slightly that he could almost have convinced himself he'd imagined it . . . but he knew he hadn't. He gave a quick nod in turn, just as subtly, and saw her eyes gleam with satisfaction – or triumph – or both.

_I don't even know what I just agreed to._

_Doesn't matter._

Pete turned to Ruth, oblivious of the wordless exchange. "Is Henry going to attend the reception tonight?" Henry Collins, Ruth's husband, rarely made public appearances these days.

Ruth shook her head. "Gregory went out to the greenhouse an hour ago to see if Henry was going to come up for air any time soon, and the poor fellow got barked at. We are going to leave a sandwich for him on his workbench, and see if he notices it."

"What if he tries to use it as plant food?" Mac asked.

Ruth waved a hand. "He's tried everything else. Why not ham and cheese?"

Mac stuffed his hands into his pockets again. "So do Pete and I get to fight over whose date you are tonight?"

Ruth laughed. "Oh, that _could_ be interesting – I dare say Pete might still have a few tricks he hasn't shown you yet. But no." Her voice took on the crisp tones of habitual command. "You'll be with me, MacGyver – and you're _not_ to try to slip away into some obscure corner. This evening's reception isn't just to officially open the exhibit of the recovered Brandenburg artworks, or even to kick-start the publicity that might help us locate the rightful owners. We're also showcasing Phoenix' role in the entire affair, and that means you have to play the triumphant hero, whether you like it or not." Mac winced melodramatically as Ruth continued. "Pete will escort Laura."

"Dr. Sand is here?" Pete asked. "I thought she was still in New York."

"I wouldn't let her miss this for the world. Her plane landed this afternoon; she's staying here as my guest, in fact. She'll be down shortly. And it's now Sandburg – she decided to legally revert to her grandfather's original family name, after all that's happened."

"Has she?" MacGyver grinned. "Sam'll be pleased."

"If you're referring to Samuel Bolinski, he already knows. He'll be at the reception tonight as well, of course."

Pete raised his eyebrows. As Phoenix' fine arts expert, Dr. Laura Sand had been unprepared for her simple consulting job to turn suddenly violent – but the coup of the discovered paintings was a career-defining event for any art historian. Her name would be known and her 'luck' envied by art scholars around the world.

"And she's agreed to stay on with the art project indefinitely – at the moment, she's helping me look for another two or three art experts to hire."

"And am I supposed to find the money to pay for them?"

Ruth shook her head. "Not this time, Pete. That's my job. Ah, Laura, there you are! You look magnificent, my dear."

Dr. Laura Sandburg was dressed formally for the reception, resplendent in black satin, still fiddling with the clasp of an elaborate necklace that sparkled against her skin. "Ruth, are you sure about lending me this necklace? I've never worn anything this valuable in my _life_ – and the _earrings _– "

"Of course I'm sure," Ruth snapped. "The set's going to be auctioned off next month at the museum's annual fund-raiser, and I'm counting on you to spend this evening looking prominently glamourous and elegant, so everyone will notice."

Mac looked her over appreciatively. "You look great, Laura. Let me know if anyone hassles you, okay?"

Ruth snorted. "No, if you catch any rich old men ogling you, let _me _know. They're all married, and I can blackmail them into bidding next month." She glanced at her jeweled watch as Gregory appeared in the doorway. "And it's high time we left. Have you brought up the cars?" Gregory gave a single nod of assent. "Excellent."

"Cars?" asked Mac, raising an eyebrow at the plural. He knew Ruth's preferred conveyance was a deliberately nondescript late-model sedan, but he'd suspected that their arrival at the reception would have to be something staged and showy. His heart sank.

"Gregory will take Pete and Laura in the Rolls, and then go and pick up Sam Bolinski. Yes, damn it, I know it's ostentatious. Sometimes a high profile is necessary." As if to prove her point, Gregory held out Ruth's coat for her: full-length leather in an eye-catching shade of red.

_At least it isn't a fur coat._ Now that he thought of it, he'd never seen Ruth wear fur. "What about you and me?"

"As I said, MacGyver, you're the hero of the hour. You're going to have to make an entrance."

Mac made a face.

Ruth smiled at him compassionately as she slipped into her coat. "It won't be as bad as all that. I do appreciate what an effort this is for you. I think in the end, you'll agree that it's all worthwhile."

Even in Presidio Heights, few houses in San Francisco possessed garages and fewer still had driveways; the Collins' had both. As they stepped out onto the semicircular brick drive, Mac stopped in mid-stride and let his eyes take in the car parked in front of the house. "Whoa."

The sportscar was a dark velvety midnight blue, almost a match for the luminous night sky above them. Its lines were sleek and powerful, teardrop curves that leaned into an invisible wind as the car hugged the ground. Even parked in the drive, it looked fast.

Behind him, Laura Sandburg looked at Ruth in mute appeal for explanation.

"It's a Mustang, dear."

Gregory cleared his throat. "A 1967 Ford GT40 Mark III, to be precise. In immaculate condition, I may add."

Laura leaned over to Ruth. "It's a guy thing, right?" she murmured.

Ruth nodded, beaming indulgently. Mac noticed Pete smirking and felt his skin twitch at the unmistakeable feel of a set-up. He didn't care.

"I'm glad you approve, MacGyver. You're driving me." She picked up his unresisting hand where it hung at his side, and dropped the keys into his palm. "Enjoy it while you can. It's going on the auction block also."

Mac realised he was grinning from ear to ear like a little boy offered a rare treat. He didn't care if he looked foolish.

"Is that for the museum too?" Laura asked.

"No, the car is going towards the cancer wing of the children's hospital."

Pete was laughing, shaking his head at the expression on Mac's face. "Henry's actually parting with this? Ruth, how did you talk him out of it?"

Ruth sighed. "I personally prefer not to attract so much attention – and the wretched thing never gets driven these days anyway. Besides, we agreed years ago never to have more than one ridiculously self-indulgent car at a time. Henry's been trying for a Bugatti Royale for years now, but for the moment he's got his heart set on a Stutz-Bearcat. So the Mustang must go, and I shan't miss it myself."

Mac glanced at Gregory. "How 'bout you?"

"As Madame says, there is little occasion to drive it. But it corners better than the Lamborghini we had before this."

Mac walked over to the Mustang and ran his hand along the smooth curved metal of the hood. Ruth laughed indulgently.

"Well, MacGyver, are you at least slightly reconciled to the evils of an evening spent peacocking amongst the unforgivably wealthy?"

Mac's grin became slightly sheepish, but no less broad.

"Very well. Laura will show off the diamonds, you will show off the Mustang, and I will show off both of you to the admiring eyes of San Francisco's finest."

"What about Pete?"

"Pete will show off his matchless ability to look comfortable and natural in black tie." Ruth beamed at Pete, who bowed formally. "Shall we go? We have an entrance to make."

Laura smiled as she took Pete's arm. "You should have been a diplomat, Pete. You look the part."

"Henry tried to make him one," Ruth remarked to MacGyver as Pete escorted Laura over to the Rolls. "That attempt at recruitment was a signal failure, of course."

Mac opened the passenger door of the Mustang and handed Ruth in. "Not your idea that time around?"

"I would have told him not to try. Henry was always a brilliant negotiator, but he lacks my particular skill in matching people and potential."

MacGyver gave her a long, considering look before he closed the car door. He tossed the keys into the air and caught them in mid-arc as he hurried around the front of the car to the driver's side. He slid into the seat and gave himself up to the bliss of handling the magnificent vehicle.

- x -


	3. Two: Social Realism

**Aftershocks**

_**Two: Social Realism**_

- x -

_Pete likes to give me a hard time about the whole business of not dressing up. Of course, when I was a kid, it used to just be about having to get cleaned up for church on Sunday – and I would much rather have been running wild outdoors, where everything was endlessly wonderful and interesting. I remember my grandma saying I could go from zero to messy in sixty seconds. But she and my mom insisted on church._

_Later on, after we'd lost Dad and my grandma . . . and even later, when it was just Mom and me . . . well, my mom wasn't so big on church any more. And Sunday was always a good day for picking up the kind of odd jobs that brought in a little extra money. Several years slipped by without my even having to remember how to tie a necktie, and then it was time for high school graduation and we couldn't really afford a new suit anyway, so Mom dug out one of my dad's._

_I suppose it was out of style, but I couldn't have told the difference even if I had cared. I wore it, and I never told her how much I hated it. I never wanted to feel like that again._

_I made out like I just felt strangled by the stiff collar and tie, but it was really the shock of looking in the mirror, seeing the familiar suit, and not seeing Dad. Even worse – the jacket, which should have been too big for me, was already a little too __small__, too tight across the back and shoulders. It was hard to breathe in it. I had never really felt like I was filling his place right, and the suit just made it worse._

_Since then, well, most of the times I've had to wear a tie, it's been for a funeral. That hasn't helped much either._

Even the blaze of publicity that had followed the Brandenburg arrests hadn't reconciled MacGyver to the kind of fanfare that surrounded one of Ruth's staged entrances. Their arrival at the California Palace of the Legion of Honour in Lincoln Park, where the 'Phoenix Collection' would remain on exhibit for a month before being returned to the lab for study and professional restoration, was greeted by a crush of journalists and curious onlookers, a gauntlet of glaring scrutiny that had to be run to reach the entrance.

Mac was more used to drifting on the edge of this kind of crowd, keeping an eye on the security perimeter for the benefit of whatever important figure was the focus of attention, watching for any sign that the attention was about to become dangerous. To find himself in the middle of the mob, surrounded by the flashing cameras and the ravenous eyes, felt like a bit like being in the middle of a feeding frenzy. The biggest difference was that he had some understanding for the way real sharks behaved; they were driven by simple hunger.

On top of that, the fancy dress brought back memories of the awkwardness of his high school prom. At least this time, he could tell himself that the horde of paparazzi were really looking at Ruth, or possibly at the Mustang, not at him. She looked poised and comfortable at the centre of all that attention. Mac tried not to find this annoying. He handed over the keys to the tuxedo-clad valet, envying him for a sharp moment – _he gets to drive all the cool cars – and he gets to drive them __away__ from this crowd _– and resisted the urge to run a finger around his collar as he dropped into the role of official escort.

Inside, the crowd at the reception was glossy and affluent; other than Mac, nearly all the men were in tuxes. The few who were not had all been members of the pack of journalists that had greeted them. They had now dispersed through the room, with a heavy concentration at the bar and the buffet tables.

MacGyver had braced himself for boredom – it _was_ a fancy-dress social event, after all – but within ten minutes he found he was enjoying the spectacle of Ruth and Pete working the room. They had met for only a moment when Ruth first arrived, and then split up, without any apparent plan or signal, and headed for opposite sides of the exhibition space. Pete worked his way smoothly from one cluster of overdressed attendees to another; Ruth, by contrast, never seemed to move more than three feet before a new group came up to her. Mac stayed in her shadow, nodded and smiled each time she introduced him, and entertained himself by counting the number of steps they took between conversational pauses. He won a string of internal bets when the number never exceeded five.

His attention sharpened briefly when he found himself being introduced to Erich Hartmann, the German consul general stationed in San Francisco, and his Israeli counterpart, Benjamin Weiss. Both men seemed determined to outdo each other in their admiration of Ruth and their insistence on being formally introduced to MacGyver. Mac shook everyone's hand and tried not to think too hard about the number of times he'd bent or broken assorted laws in both countries during DXS missions.

As they moved off, a tall, white-haired man who'd been shadowing Hartmann lingered for a few moments. "Mrs. Collins? I'm delighted to finally meet you – I'm Dieter von Schüssel. Mr. Hartmann has assigned me as liaison with Phoenix for this project. I'm to offer you whatever assistance I can." His accent was pronounced but his English was clear.

Ruth smiled warmly. "I'm delighted to meet you, Dieter. And do call me Ruth. Dear me, I thought I knew all of Erich's cultural staff – are you sure we haven't already met? Do you have a background in art?"

Dieter chuckled; pale blue eyes glinted behind thick glasses. "I was born in Vienna. By rights, I should take offense at that question – but no matter. I used to teach art history at the University of Leipzig."

"Splendid. I'm sure we'll do well together. That reminds me – I neglected to ask Erich about the order of speakers . . . "

As Ruth and Dieter began to discuss logistics for the evening's formalities, MacGyver seized his chance and melted away into the crowd. He spotted Pete over by the rostrum where the speechmaking would be staged, and carefully headed in the opposite direction, where the recovered artworks had been set up on exhibit.

Most of the eddying crowd had begun to move towards the seats, except for the foresighted diehards who were heading towards the bar instead. The gallery section was almost free from the crush of people, and Mac felt some of the tension ease out of him as the crowd thinned.

After a few minutes of wandering around the displays, MacGyver found himself in front of the painting that had started it all: the Rubens landscape that had been the first of the looted artworks to come to light. He stared at it in astonishment. The last time he'd seen it, a gaping hole had marred the ethereal perfection of the painted sky. He couldn't see any sign now that the painting had ever been damaged.

"Pretty amazing, huh?" a voice beside him echoed his thoughts. Mac turned to smile at Laura Sandburg and her assistant from the Phoenix art lab, Veronica Faber.

"This _is_ the same painting, right?" Mac asked. "You haven't switched it for a ringer?"

Laura laughed. "It's the same one. Isn't the repair work just beautiful? Ruth found us the most delightful little man from London –"

"Lambeth," Veronica interjected. "Gordie's from Lambeth. He's amazing. He's a third generation art restorer."

"And he brought his daughter with him; she's the fourth generation. We've learned a lot from him."

"From both of them."

"Family business?" Mac asked with a smile.

"Well, if you believe his hints, the whole clan used to be art forgers, and his is the first generation to be respectable. Or maybe it's only Addie who's actually respectable – that's his daughter. Gordie gets pretty cagey about it when you try to pin him down." Laura started as someone touched her shoulder from behind, then turned and smiled. "Oh, there you are, Sam! Take a look at your painting."

The old man was beaming from ear to ear. "Isn't it beautiful, my friends?" He clasped Laura's hand and kissed it, then turned pink as Veronica gave him an impetuous hug and kissed his cheek. "Such beauty – almost as beautiful as the two of you. You should not hide yourselves away in the laboratory, any more than this painting should have been hidden away for so long." He shook Mac's hand warmly, still beaming. "MacGyver, my friend. You are looking well, God be thanked."

Mac grinned and returned the man's handclasp. "Good to see you, Sam. How're you doing?"

"I am well. I am busy, very busy – Laura here has been keeping me on my toes! She is a hard taskmaster, that one."

Laura laughed. "Hardly. Once in a while, when I can steal him for a few hours from the Oral History Project, he comes by the lab and fills my head with art history minutiae. He's an invaluable resource."

Veronica looked over at the rostrum. "And he's supposed to be over there with the bigwigs. Sam, they're waving at you. I think the speeches are about to start."

Mac exchanged a long-suffering look with Sam. "Is it too late for us to sneak out of here?"

"Far too late," Sam sighed. "Yes, yes, Laura, I accept my fate." He squared his shoulders and marched over to where Ruth and Hartmann were waiting for him, Laura and Veronica in his wake.

MacGyver considered trying to slip away altogether; but he doubted he'd get away with it. Instead, he spotted an empty seat towards the back and headed for it. The man sitting to the left of the unoccupied chair noticed him while he was still some distance away, and shifted to make room for Mac to slip between the rows of chairs.

"Thanks." Mac settled in with satisfaction; he was safely planted behind a tall, burly man whose broad silhouette would help screen him from Ruth and Pete's searching eyes. No wonder the seat had been empty.

On the other side, a dark-haired woman in a florid blouse was staring at him. "Aren't you supposed to be up there with the big shots?" she inquired. Her voice was a strong nasal bray, straight from the Bronx.

Mac gave her a superficial, tight smile. "I don't see why."

"You came in with Ruth Collins. I saw you. Who are you, really?"

He gave a noncommittal shrug. "The name's MacGyver."

"Aaaand . . . ?"

"And what?"

"What are you doing with someone like Ruth Collins?"

Mac shrugged again. "I work for the Phoenix Foundation."

"That's all?" The woman sounded disappointed, as if Mac had personally let her down.

"That's all."

She studied him with narrowed eyes for a moment, then held out a hand and flashed a smile that was toothier than his had been, but just as superficial. "Well, _I'm_ Donna Piper."

Mac took her hand for as brief a clasp as he could manage without seeming rude. "Okay. Nice to meet you."

The smile deflated somewhat. "That's Donna Piper as in 'Paying the Piper.'" Mac looked blank. "Oh, for Christ's sake, don't you read the papers? That's my _column_. I'm Donna the Piperazzi."

"Um, I'm from LA."

Donna Piper sniffed. "So everyone in LA's illiterate?"

The man on Mac's left chuckled. "Sometimes you'd almost think so." Mac turned towards him, relieved at the interruption, and took the man's proffered hand. "Zak Abramson."

"MacGyver."

The handshake was much firmer as well as more welcome. "_The_ MacGyver?"

Mac shrugged. "There's gotta be more than one."

"There's only one who matters." There was a faint accent in his voice, but Mac couldn't place it. Zak looked close to his own age, but balding, with an aquiline nose above a neatly trimmed dark beard. "So you're with Phoenix? Damned fine work you people are doing."

"Thanks. Do you work for the museum here?"

"No, no, I'm with the Anti-Defamation League. You are involved with the artwork restoration project?"

"Only on the fringes. I mostly work with the security team."

"Ah, yes." Zak's dark eyes gleamed. "Quite a problem there. Damned shame if looted artworks got stolen right after they'd been recovered. Nothing like being responsible for history, culture, wartime reparations and national pride all in one."

On Mac's right side, Donna Piper nudged him. "Never mind about all that." She leaned towards him, her eyes bright. "C'mon, tell me. What's Ruth Collins _really_ like?"

"What?"

"You know . . . get behind the public façade. Nobody's _that_ perfect. Is she tough to work for? Why don't we see her husband these days – maybe some trouble brewing there?" The woman's sharp eyes looked MacGyver up and down with an unflattering intimation. "Come on, you can tell me. Are you . . . you know . . . _close _to her?"

Mac saw the greedy spark in Donna Piper's eyes and caught himself before he started to explode. That was exactly what she was hoping for – and the one thing she'd hate the most would be a dull response.

He smiled blandly and shrugged. "Well, y'know." He let his accent thicken as he leaned towards her confidentially. "It's kinda like this. She's just, well, Ruth. That's somethin' ya can really count on, no matter what. No matter what happens, she's Ruth, and she'll always be Ruth. Ya know?"

Donna's eyes narrowed. "You're not helping, mister."

MacGyver grinned. "Guess ya can't help everyone."

As the speeches began, Mac's attention was already wandering, looking over the room and the people in it. At formal events, there was always an initial impression of bland uniformity, especially amongst the men in their nearly identical black and white; it made it all the more intriguing to look at each one carefully, spotting the minute differences in appearance and mannerism that revealed the individuals underneath.

Zak had the kind of stiff edginess that told MacGyver he was no more accustomed to formal wear than Mac was, and didn't like it any better. Up on the low platform where the speakers' rostrum stood, Pete was introducing the German consul general, who unexpectedly showed the same signs of discomfort. _Aha. A bureaucrat, not a diplomat._ Behind him, Dieter von Schüssel looked far more at ease; and Ben Weiss seemed as comfortable and natural in his penguin suit as Pete did.

Mac couldn't keep from smirking when Dieter was presented to Pete as the German 'cultural attaché' assigned to support the project. _He's gotta be the first cultural attaché either of us ever met who's actually got something to do with culture._ His smile faded when he suddenly noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Zak Abramson was wearing a nearly identical smirk, as if he was in on the same joke.

_Huh._

The tremor hit while Pete was still speaking; Mac felt the ripple even before he spotted the swaying of the drapes behind the speaker's platform. It wasn't a bad quake, especially by California standards; Pete caught at the edge of the rostrum for a moment until the first tremor had passed, and then made a smooth joke about earthshaking events and pressed on with his speech as soon as he could recover the attention of the crowd.

When the quake hit, Donna Piper let out a squeak and grabbed Mac's arm. "Shit, I am _never _going to get used to it. I always think, you know – it's going to be The Big One. Every time." She released his arm reluctantly.

Zak Abrams caught his eye. "You seem calm, my friend. You have lived a long time here in California?" Mac nodded. "I, too, find it difficult to take it in stride – I was in Naples in 1980. I have never felt comfortable about earthquakes since then."

MacGyver nodded distractedly. His attention had been caught by the group at the side of the speakers' platform. Ruth had remained unflustered throughout – no surprise there; she _did_ live in San Francisco itself – but Laura Sandburg had gone white as a sheet. Ruth was holding her arm and gesturing for a chair to be brought up. _Huh. I'd'a thought Laura woulda got used to quakes by now._

Mac's attention wandered again as the German and Israeli consuls made nearly identical declarations of their support for the project; Ruth stepped up to the rostrum and made a much briefer speech, announcing the Phoenix Foundation's plans to handle the restoration of the recovered artworks. She turned to leave the platform, and Mac gave a mental sigh of relief and wondered how long the post-speech schmoozing would take before they'd be free to leave. Then the Israeli consul general took the podium again. Mac snapped back into focus.

"Wait, wait! We are not done yet, Mrs. Collins. Ruth, you get your _tuchas _back up here." Weiss was wearing in a very un-diplomatic smirk. "My friends, I know this is hard to believe, but this woman has never been formally recognised by any government for her courage and selfless heroism during the war that claimed so many lives . . . "

MacGyver saw Pete beaming, and realised he was grinning at least as hard at the sight of Ruth's evident embarrassment.

" . . . in addition to her work in coordinating the Resistance to the forces occupying central and southern France, between the years 1940 and 1945 she was instrumental in effecting the escape of 437 Jews from Nazi or Fascist-controlled territory – including, I should mention, my own great-grandmother. Hah! You didn't know that, did you, Ruth?"

Mac saw the look on Ruth's face and stopped wondering if she'd had any idea that this was going to happen. She hadn't.

Beside him, Donna Piper was frowning. She had taken desultory notes as the speeches proceeded, but now she leaned over towards MacGyver. "I don't understand. What are they talking about?"

Mac tried not to sound impatient. "World War II. Ruth was in France when war broke out. She joined the French Resistance."

"Huh? I thought the French surrendered."

"The Vichy _government _surrendered. The French went on fighting, underground. Thousands were killed." Mac could see that Donna was already tuning him out. He ground his teeth. "They're part of why we _won_."

The columnist shrugged. "Yeah, yeah, right. Fine. But I can't fill my column with that kind of crap. Who really cares about any of that old stuff?"

On Mac's other side, Zak broke in. "Only those of us who must live with the consequences – or who do not wish to repeat the more painful lessons of history."

Up on the platform, the medal presentation was concluding. They'd roped Sam Bolinski in on the show; Weiss handed him the medal in its velvet box, and Sam looped the striped ribbon around Ruth's neck and kissed her on both cheeks, which were flushing scarlet. Mac grinned again, even more broadly; he'd never seen Ruth completely at a loss before, and doubted he ever would again.

Ruth took the rostrum again, and the gleam in her eye made Mac pay attention. "I suppose I'm expected to make some kind of speech, but to hell with that. There's something far more important for us to recognise this evening – not my old misdeeds. Pete, would you please do the honours?"

MacGyver frowned in puzzlement as Pete stepped back up to the rostrum.

"As most of you already know, the Brandenburg affair began when the Phoenix Foundation inadvertently purchased a painting that proved to have been stolen – a long-lost item of Nazi wartime loot. Carlysle House, the auctioneers, has cooperated fully with us in coming to an agreement to restore the painting to its rightful owner, Mr. Samuel Bolinski."

Sam stepped forward as the crowd applauded politely. Pete touched the old man's arm and said, "Sam, you know the painting's yours. Don't do anything you don't really want to do, okay?"

Sam patted Pete on the arm and smiled. He stepped to the podium.

"My friends. The Phoenix Foundation has given me back my painting. For this I am grateful. More than this: they have listened to my story, and listened with attention. They have given me more than a mere picture. They have given me respect. They have honoured my family – my dead – and grieved with me for my loss. In a way, they have sat _shiva _with me over the ghosts of the past."

Sam gestured towards the German consul general. "This man, who was only a baby when the Third Reich murdered my family and stole our possessions, has apologised to _me_, a Polish Jew, on behalf of his country and his country's past. Such generosity, such grace, is a _mitzvah_, a blessing. It cries out for generosity in turn."

Sam half-turned and indicated another man, who had remained throughout at the back of the group on the platform. "I have met many fine people in the last few months; this is one of them, Mr. Powell. He is the director of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Mr. Powell, I have offered to you this painting, the one item I have recovered from my family's patrimony. I ask you to take it for your collection, so that everyone can enjoy its beauty and remember my family in their hearts."

MacGyver scowled as the museum director smoothly accepted the donation. The presentation was, at last, the final act in the formalities; when the speeches were finally over, Mac made a beeline for Sam. He tugged at the old man's sleeve to draw him away.

"All right, Sam – how hard did Ruth lean on you to give away your painting?" Mac had to keep a tight hold on himself; he felt that he'd explode if he didn't take care.

The old man smiled and patted his shoulder. "No, no, my friend. You do not understand. Why are you so angry?"

Mac tried to answer, and found himself spluttering. He gestured instead, reaching into empty air for the words that evaded him.

Sam seemed to understand what Mac couldn't express. "My friend, it is more than I can believe, how much my family's picture is worth now. Nearly half a million American dollars! Who would have thought it? They let me take it home, and I could not sleep for worrying about it. I cannot keep it safe, in my home! I am a simple man. I live simply. I cannot afford heavy vaults and great locks. And I do not wish to live like that.

"No. This is better. Everyone will be able to enjoy the picture, it will be safe, and me, I can go look at it any time I wish. You did hear Mr. Powell say that I am now an honoured lifetime member of his museum? I can go there any day, every day, and look at all the paintings. And even after I am gone, my family will be remembered."

Pete and Laura caught up with them, Ruth lagging somewhat behind. Laura glowered at Mac. "You were _supposed _to be up there with the rest of us."

Mac cocked an eyebrow. "And spoil Ruth's show?"

Ruth had removed the medal from around her neck and was fingering it pensively as she replaced it in its velvet case. "Pete, MacGyver, if I _ever_ have reason to believe that you _knew _about that in advance . . . "

Mac looked at her innocently and turned to Pete. "So Sam got his painting back – even though he didn't keep it. Did we get our money back? Phoenix, I mean?"

"Carlysle House annulled the sale," Pete replied.

Ruth smiled sardonically. "After all, their business would suffer considerably if they were to become notorious as unreliable dealers in artworks of unverifiable or questionable provenance."

"Ruth, you wouldn't – " Laura began.

"Don't underestimate her," Mac broke in. "So they didn't like being used as fences, huh?"

"Carlysle in particular was extremely upset. He's going after them with all guns blazing to recover their lost commission on the cancelled sale – I've lent him a lawyer, in fact. It was part of the arrangement we made." Ruth gestured. "He's over there by the Titian, and I do hope he isn't drooling directly onto it."

"I bet Gordie could remove drool if he had to," Laura murmured.

"I think I'm gonna have to meet this guy," said MacGyver.

"You should. You'd get along great. Just don't ask him to appraise your velvet Elvis, okay? If you do, I'm going to have to pretend I don't know you."

Mac looked at her darkly. "I do _not_ have a velvet Elvis. But – " his face lit up and his dark eyes sparkled – "I _do_ have this really cool picture of dogs playing poker."

Ruth took Mac's arm firmly. "Are you trying to start a riot? I think someone needs to keep you out of trouble. And you dodged out on me earlier."

Mas resigned himself to another round of marking time, but Ruth surprised him; instead of waiting for the reception attendees to approach her and pay court, she singled out several individuals, one at a time, and swooped down on them. Carlysle, the owner of the auction house, proved to be an elderly, gruff Scot, disinclined to talk when there were paintings to be studied and coveted.

Ruth smoothly shifted to the next painting in the row, and struck up a conversation with a well-dressed, well-groomed man of about MacGyver's age.

"Douglas – it's so good to see you again! I'd like you to meet Mr. MacGyver – he's with the Phoenix Foundation. Yes, he's the one who actually recovered the collection. MacGyver, this is Douglas Carmichael."

Mac tried to remember if there was any reason he might have heard of the man. He drew a blank.

Ruth pressed on. All through the evening, Mac hadn't needed to say much. Left to himself, he'd have left gaps in the flow of small talk and superficial conversation wide enough to drive a house through; Ruth easily covered the lapses.

"How's your daughter doing? She'll be graduating from high school this year, won't she?"

Carmichael beamed. "Yes, that's right. In fact, she graduated early. We're very proud of Stephanie."

"Any plans for college?"

"We're still working on it . . . she's a bit unsettled, you know." Carmichael gave a supercilious laugh. "Kids that age never know what they want to do."

_I__ did_, Mac thought. _I wanted to travel the world and help people, see everything there was to see and learn everything there was to know._

Ruth had cocked her head. "That's Stephanie over by the Monet, isn't it? I thought I remembered she was interested in art."

"Completely nuts about it. It's not the most promising field, of course . . . we're hoping she'll go in for architecture instead. It's a much more solid profession. But she gets excited about the glamour of the 'creative life'." Carmichael's voice grew sardonic.

"Hmmm . . . " Ruth studied the young girl across the room. "Yes, that can be a real problem . . . it's quite difficult for anyone that age to get any real notion of just how humdrum the working life in any field can be." She glanced keenly at Carmichael. "Now, if she had the chance for a spot of hands-on experience . . . an internship, perhaps, in an art restoration lab . . . "

Carmichael's eyes narrowed. "Ruth . . . you know I can see right through you . . . "

"Of course you can. You've been more than generous in the past, and I think you'll agree that we've put your donations to the very best use. You've had the satisfaction, every year, of seeing the good you've done. I'm simply thinking that this year, it's high time a little of that good went somewhere a little closer to your heart. If we can expand the hiring budget to cover a few more positions – art experts and restorers – there will be the added capacity for interns as well . . . " Ruth's voice trailed off as her smile broadened. "Just think about it, Doug. I'll give you a call next week and we can discuss it a bit more then." She moved off into the crowd, MacGyver in tow.

Mac looked at her sideways. "Real slick, Ruth."

Ruth snorted. "Yes, you've seen me at my worst now, I dare say. But I refuse to apologise. How do you think Phoenix manages to keep the lights on? Every Douglas Carmichael I can rope in means another study funded, or a new project we can move from pipe dream to reality. And his daughter might be an artist yet. Or a damned fine architect."

"Or a spoiled yuppie brat?"

Ruth shrugged. "Who knows? In the end, it will be up to her, after all – with a bit of help. Which beats it being up to her father. He's a good man, but a dreadful stick. And his wife's not much better. I quite feel for poor Stephanie."

"Just how many people _do_ you know?"

"Me? Good Lord, thousands if you tally them all. As best as I can, that is, which isn't nearly as well as I'd like. I only wish I _could_ remember everyone. Of course, in the Résistance, we couldn't commit any records to paper – not when a single name in a note could mean torture and death."

"I guess that kind of pressure has its effect."

"Let's say I had a great deal of motivation to build up my mental muscles very quickly indeed. But you're giving me too much credit. I don't remember faces and names, MacGyver."

"Coulda fooled me."

Ruth's smile belied her age. "I remember _people_. You have an extraordinary memory yourself – in fact, you remember names and faces better than I do; most people are wretched at that. Plus all that science, physics, mechanics, the interactions of chemicals . . . I deal in the peculiar chemistry of human personality."

Mac gave her a sideways look. "So back when you got Pete and me to join Phoenix . . . "

"I have never been inclined to actual manipulation, MacGyver. For one thing, the people most worth having around are likely to resent it . . . and resentment carries a dreadfully long-term toxic price. I have never manipulated you _or_ Pete. I've been at some pains not to do so."

"Okay, if it isn't manipulation, what is it?"

She shrugged. "I try to match people to circumstances. If I can manage a good match, the person will follow, simply because it _is_ a good match. If they don't, well, I need to find either a better match or a better prospect. That's where knowing so many people really pays off."

- x -

Ruth was unusually silent as they waited, after the reception had finally wound its way to an end, for the Mustang to be brought up. She was fingering the black velvet case that held the medal. As MacGyver took his place behind the wheel, she finally spoke, her voice uncharacteristically brittle.

"Four hundred and thirty-seven? How the _hell_ did they come up with _that_ number?"

Mac glanced at her as he put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot, down the curving lane that led out of Lincoln Park and merged into El Camino del Mar. "How many was it?"

"I have no idea." Ruth let her hands fall into her lap and leaned her head back against the seat. "I wasn't exactly counting at the time. And I haven't led the quietest of lives since then – in marked contrast to most of my fellows, I should say. It astonishes me, how most of us who came home from the war simply settled down into obscure normalcy."

Mac grinned into the darkness, trying to visualise Ruth 'settling down'.

"I suppose it might have been that many, if you count every single refugee who passed through our field of operations." She sighed. "But it wasn't even a tithe of what we missed. For years I brooded on all the people we _didn't _save. It wasn't until I met Pete and started working with him that I was able to let go of that. He gave me the worst tongue-lashing I've ever had when he found out how hard I'd been on myself." She looked over at Mac. "I shouldn't smirk like that if I were you."

"Hey, after all the years I've been workin' with Pete – yikes, hang on . . . " Mac hit the brakes as a cat emerged from the shadowed undergrowth of the park and dashed across the narrow road in front of them.

The brake pedal under his foot felt suddenly mushy, and then went all the way to the floor with no resistance.

MacGyver let out a strangled sound. "_Hang __on_!" He felt cold sweat on his forehead as he swerved to avoid the cat, which for a wonder did not dodge back into the path of the accelerating car. He straightened out again and met the next curve not quite too late to follow it cleanly, feeling the car rapidly picking up speed as they headed down the badly-lit, winding road. Ahead of them, farther down the hill, lay the all-too-well-named neighbourhood of Seacliff: another district of mansions with mega-million-dollar views. The views were that good because the houses were perched on a high bluff that dropped over a hundred feet down to the Pacific, to meet icy water and unforgiving rocks.

_If it hadn't been for that cat, we coulda been out in traffic and going twice the speed before I felt the brakes fail . . ._

Mac's awareness was caught up in his sense of the car – the mass that fed the increasing speed and inertia, the action of the suspension, the grip of the wheels on the road and the response of the steering. His eyes strained ahead to see as much of each curve as soon as possible, so he could feel with his entire body how the car had to be steered to follow the twists and turns. Each curve had its sweet spot, where – if he could hit it just right – the car would follow the arc of an imaginary perfect circle, and the centrifugal force would pull the vehicle tighter to the road instead of flinging it away towards disaster.

And then the desperately short transition between curves, where the road switched to bend the other way, and he had to find and follow the right line. At the first, too-brief straightaway, he downshifted, revving the engine to mesh the gears and hearing the transmission howl its protest. It helped, but it wasn't going to be enough. Mac's body swayed with the car, his face beading with sweat even as his hands kept their light touch on the wheel. Gripping too tightly would slow down the speed of his response.

At the same time, his memory was frantically scrambling, trying to assemble an image of what the next stretch of the road looked like. El Camino del Mar continued in its swaying curves down the hill after it left Lincoln Park and entered Seacliff, drawing ever closer to the edge of the bluff where it met Seacliff Avenue itself. Most of the mansions faced the street with walls or gates, and the narrow street was edged with trees and dotted with parked cars . . . a hundred obstacles and no clean route to safety.

"Ruth."

"Yes?"

"Take the parking brake. Don't yank back on it – hold down the button and pulse the brake. Just try to slow us down a bit." _Or keep us from speeding up as much ..._

It helped, but it wasn't enough either, and they were running out of time. Ahead of them, the intersection where El Camino del Mar met Seacliff Avenue was rushing towards them – a sharp bend to the right that led to an even steeper slope downwards, versus a hairpin turn to the left into a cul-de-sac at the edge of the bluff. MacGyver caught a glimpse of taillights up the cul-de-sac – some wealthy resident was making a safer, more leisurely return from a night out.

_Worth trying . . . nothin' else to try anyway . . ._

Mac felt instinctively for the exact right moment to hit the gas as they approached the turn. He heard Ruth squeak as the car popped forward; but the added boost put him in complete control of the vehicle for that precious second. He adjusted the steering wheel a fraction, grabbed the emergency brake and yanked it back hard.

The rear wheels of the Mustang locked and the car skidded to the left and spun like a top, the screeching tires echoingly loudly in the quiet street. As the car pivoted, Mac released the brake at just the right moment and stomped on the gas again as he steered the car through its skid. The Mustang had spun almost 180 degrees when it straightened out, clearing the hairpin turn where El Camino met Seacliff, and shot forward into the cul-de-sac.

To their right, the cliff fell away towards the wide sweep of the Pacific, too far down, just the other side of a too-narrow parking area and a too-flimsy fence. Ahead of them, Seacliff dead-ended only a few hundred yards away – but the lights of the other car were retreating into a gated enclosure at the end of the cul-de-sac, where the drive ran _uphill_ back up the steepening side of the bluff. Mac lined himself up with the long drive, blessedly almost straight, seized the parking brake and began to pulse it again, shedding as much speed as quickly as he could without locking the rear wheels again.

The Mustang slowed as they headed uphill in the wake of the other car, passing into the mansion's well-groomed grounds while the gate remained wide open. There was still some momentum when the length of the drive began to run out; the car ahead of them turned away into its garage, and Mac glanced around once, set his teeth, and pulled back hard on the parking brake.

The car skidded into another spin and passed close by a tree next to the drive; a low-hanging branch struck the windshield and a spiderweb of cracks blossomed out from the impact. Mac had just enough control left on the wheel to dodge the trunk as they careened past. They came to rest in a mass of low bushes on top of a flowerbed at the side of the drive.

After a breathless eternity, Ruth spoke, her voice surprisingly steady. "Dear God. I do believe we're actually intact."

"More or less . . . I think it's mostly the paintwork . . . "

"To hell with the damned car. I'm talking about _us_." Ruth drew a shaky breath. "MacGyver, if you ever decide to take up racing again, be sure to let me know so I can bet on you."

"I'll keep it in mind." Mac drew a long, deep breath of the salt-tanged air off the ocean. The adrenaline still had him in its grip, and he felt almost dizzy with the awareness of still being alive and unhurt. "Gregory was right, you know," he murmured after a long moment. "It's _real_ good on corners."

Doors slammed shut on the car that had preceded them up the mansion's long drive, and they saw two people approaching them – the driver, a short, heavy man in evening dress, was advancing far more slowly than his passenger, a woman in a long fur coat who weaved unsteadily on high heels. She stopped a few feet away from the Mustang and peered in at them through the starred windshield.

"Good God. Ruth? Is that you?" Her voice was high-pitched and slurred, obviously intoxicated. "Does Henry know you're out joy-riding?" The woman giggled. "What the hell are you doing here anyway, parking in my garden?"

"Oh, hell," Ruth muttered. "That woman is _such_ a dreadful gossip." She rolled down the window and leaned out. "Sorry about the mess, Connie. Would you be so kind as to let us use your phone?"

As Connie turned to speak to her husband, Ruth glanced over at MacGyver. "Pete is _not _going to be happy when he hears about this. Do you think it was sabotage?"

Mac rubbed his eyes, his jaw set in a grim line. "I'll have to look to be sure, but it's gotta be. It can't have been anything else."

"Oh, hell," Ruth said again. "You know what that means."

Mac nodded. "Which one of us was the target?"

- x -


	4. Three: Art Nouveau

**Aftershocks**

_**Three: Art Nouveau**_

- x -

_Another thing Ruth's real good at – maybe __too__ good – is leaving you thinking you got the best of her in a deal. I've seen her pull it over and over . . . not just on me. It takes a while, sometimes a long while, before you realise that she somehow managed to get __**exactly**_ _what she wanted, and at the same time left you owing her one._

_I just wish I could figure out how she does it. Maybe then I wouldn't fall for it so easily._

_We were still carving out an expansion to the facilities for the art restoration project – and Willis and I were still busting our brains on how to guarantee the security of the whole thing – when Ruth buttonholed me and started asking about the Challengers Club. Didn't they have a job training programme? Any chance there might be some kid with a genuine flair for art who'd be up for an internship? A solid gold opportunity to put in long hours for lousy pay and the chance to get the kind of firsthand experience that'd make anyone else's resumé look tame. For the right candidate, it could be a one-way ticket into a decent art school and maybe a solid career afterwards._

_Well, of course I jumped all over it, even agreed to put in extra time and keep an eye on the interns . . . I was thanking her for giving Rafael the chance to bust out of the projects when it suddenly occurred to me that __I__ was the one who had just done __her__ a favour. And I'd just committed myself to another round of hanging around the art lab._

_We'd hit a figurative dead end over the car business – I suppose it beat hitting a real one. It was definitely sabotage, and the pool of possible suspects was only about half the entire city of San Francisco. I didn't like leaving the matter there, but the art exhibit wrapped up without any further incident – except for an embarrassing column in the tabloids about Ruth Collins and a 'much younger man' escaping a citation for reckless driving in an exclusive neighbourhood._

_We paid the piper that time, all right._

MacGyver poked his head around the doorway of the art restoration lab at Phoenix, anxious and uncertain of what he'd find. He had been called away to Peru, and like most of his trips, he'd been gone longer than originally expected.. The atmosphere in the lab hadn't been too good when he'd left, and he was worried that the situation could have gotten explosive while he wasn't around to defuse it.

He spotted Addie Thompson immediately, as usual – the shaggy dead-black hair, the swirling layers of black clothing and the Doc Martens were unmistakable. Lately he'd started seeing more and more kids dressing that way, but Addie pulled off the look with a unique style.

Gordie Thompson had stayed on when the project was extended, and Addie had been retained as well; along with their expertise in restoration, Gordie's encyclopedic knowledge of entire catalogues of art history had proved invaluable. Addie was almost the same age as the two interns, Rafael Alvarado and Stephanie Carmichael, but she had been working as a restorer for almost five years, and was a natural teacher. Mac was used to seeing her bent over a canvas with either Rafé or Stephanie at her elbow, hanging on every word and pretending that they weren't having a problem understanding her sometimes heavy accent.

He wasn't used to seeing _both _interns listening in – he wasn't used to seeing them in the same room for longer than it took one or the other to find an excuse to duck out. MacGyver blinked, but they were still there – Rafael on one side and Stephanie on the other, and Addie in the centre, bent over the shimmering beauty of a Monet harbour scene, wielding a soft cloth dipped in a cleaning solution and talking nonstop.

Mac blinked again. The last time he'd seen Stephanie, she'd been wearing designer slacks and a blouse that had probably cost enough to feed Rafé's entire family for a month. Now she was wearing scruffy black jeans and a black T-shirt that looked like it had been borrowed from Addie's apparently infinite stash.

He was still staring with a bemused expression when Laura spotted him, set down her own tools and came over.

"Pretty amazing, huh?"

Mac simply shook his head. "When did _that_ happen?"

"It's been like that for the last two weeks. I call it 'the miracle of Saint Addie'." Laura smiled at the sight of the slow grin spreading across Mac's face. "I think it started when she got Rafé and Stephanie all hooked on some band or other, and they started hitting the clubs together." She saw Mac's eyes narrow and added hastily, "I don't think they're drinking heavily or anything. Dancing, yes. And they've been talking music incessantly for two weeks. And then Stephanie started showing up wearing Addie's clothes. Which are a hell of a lot better suited to the lab work anyway."

"She probably figures it'll annoy her family."

"Have you met her family?" Mac nodded. "Me too. I'd happily annoy them myself."

Mac wandered over to the canvas Laura had been working on: a portrait of a young man in dark clothing and a fancy-looking hat. She had only just started cleaning it, and the picture was still dusky and blurred with age and accumulated residue. "So how's the project coming?"

Laura folded her arms around herself and surveyed her work. "We're coming along fine with the initial cleaning and getting the rough catalogue started. Veronica's still doing most of the work with the computer records – I'd hoped Rafé or Stephanie would start doing some of that, but neither of them's been interested."

"I guess it wasn't creative enough."

"Rafé was interested at first, but about a week ago he just dropped it. And Addie did just the same thing – keen to start with, and now she won't have anything to do with it."

Overhearing his name, Rafé looked up with a start and saw MacGyver. The nervous expression on his face melted and he grinned and hurried over.

"Mac, how ya doin', man? How come you gone so long?" He clasped Mac's arm and punched his shoulder. " 'Bout time you come back. You been missin' all the fun."

Mac gave a meaningful look over towards the Monet, where Stephanie and Addie were still standing, whispering to each other as they watched Rafé. "Kinda different from when I left. Specially since, last I saw, you and that – how did you put it? – 'stuck-up princess' – were getting on about as well as a mismatched set of alley cats."

Rafé shrugged. "Naw, Steffie's cool, man. I hate to say it, but you was right – I just hadta give her a little time." He leaned over and whispered to Mac, "Guess what?"

"What?"

"You won' believe it. Hell, I didn't believe it myself."

"_What_?"

"Her mama can't cook! Can you believe that? All that money, and she done grew up eatin' cold cereal and microwaved shit. Addie's mama don' cook too good neither. Nothin' like mine."

MacGyver grinned. "Laura says you three have been hitting the clubs together."

The shift in Rafé's face was subtle, but Mac knew he hadn't imagined it. The easy warmth vanished in a moment; the young man's smile stayed in place, but it had suddenly become a meaningless mask, as obscure as the age-shadowed portrait beside them. "Yeah, well, that was okay. But I ain't doin' it no more." He glanced over to where the other two were watching him; Addie looked pensive and Stephanie was frowning. "Hey, I gotta go. Great havin' you back, man. Welcome home."

MacGyver frowned as Rafé hurried away. He turned back to Laura with a questioning look; but she shrugged helplessly. "That's the other thing. Some days he's up and cheerful, asking a thousand questions and doodling on anything flat and blank and available – and some days he's so quiet you'd think he planned on joining a monastery." She picked up a soft brush and turned back to the painting, frowning at its shadowed depths.

"Any progress finding the rightful owners of the paintings?" Mac peered at the portrait, trying to figure out what the young man was holding – it could have been a book, a brick, or another hat for all he could tell. Or a meatloaf, for that matter.

"Finding the owners?" Laura's laugh was harsh. "MacGyver, we're barely getting started identifying the artists! Frau Brandenburg's records can't be trusted; the only provenances she had were faked. Any real records she ever had would have been destroyed – and identification of undocumented works is a specialised field, even when there hasn't been a war disrupting the continuity of the record. I have twenty-four paintings here that we haven't even attributed yet, except for educated guesses."

"Huh." Mac frowned with concentration. "So that's why, when they were on exhibit up in San Francisco, a bunch of them didn't even have dates or names or titles? I wondered about that. And the exhibit only showed maybe half the paintings anyway."

"Yes. They all needed cleaning, and some needed – still need – more restoration than others. Gordie had to focus on the Rubens; Pete insisted that it had to be ready for the exhibition. There was only so much that the rest of us could do in time. Once they're all cleaned and we've had a formal photographic record made, we'll put together a catalogue and circulate it, inviting input from the rest of the art world. Meanwhile, we're doing the best job we can of working out the most likely attribution for the different artists."

"But I don't get it. Aren't the paintings signed?"

"Well, not all of them. Prior to 1500, artists rarely signed their works. Even after that – and signatures can be forged, Mac. God, _paintings_ are forged all the time – and as the art world bids the prices up higher and higher, forgery becomes more profitable. More tempting."

"Lemme guess – so does theft."

"You've got it. It's getting to be a bigger business all the time. The real problem – the vulnerability – is that we have pieces here that aren't officially documented. At least a quarter of these paintings aren't even in the _catalogues raisonnés_ for the various artists. "

"The what?"

"The _catalogue raisonné_ – that's the official record of all known and acknowledged works of any given artist."

Mac frowned. "So from the point of view of the official record, these paintings don't really exist."

"That's kind of overstating it, but yes. That's why Frau Brandenburg was able to take the risk of selling pieces on the open market – in most cases, there was no formal documentation of the paintings at all, let alone any record that they had been looted."

"But how could they be auctioned if there wasn't a clear record?"

"Dealers find 'new' works all the time – well, not _all_ the time, but often enough. It's an incredible boost for a dealer or art historian, especially when it's a previously unknown work by a major artist." Laura stared pensively at the painted eyes of the portrait in front of her, as if she was waiting for the long-dead young man to tell her his secrets.

"That's called a 'coup', right?"

"Yes, that's right."

Mac looked at Laura thoughtfully. "Pete said the Phoenix Collection was going to make your own reputation – practically every painting here is a coup, isn't it?"

Laura nodded. There was a shadow behind her eyes that Mac couldn't account for. "MacGyver . . . you must know, I had intended to back out of the project – I had an offer for a stint in New York, consulting with the acquisitions committee for the Met. Pete and Ruth talked me into staying on. They can be very persuasive. Especially Ruth."

She glanced uncertainly at MacGyver; he gave her a slow easy smile and was gratified to see her relax slightly and return the smile.

"Oh, yeah. Tell me about it." Mac turned to study the portrait again. "Back when we first saw the stash of paintings, there were some you said had been 'reported as destroyed'. That must mean there was a record of them."

The shadow had returned to cloud Laura's face, but now she lit up. "Addie," she called, "let's show Mac our baby. Can you go bring the Rembrandt portrait out of the vault?"

Addie glanced over. "You want Oldy-Moldy Bucket-'ead? You'll hafta to come fetch 'im with me."

"Why? Oh, that's right – Veronica's not here."

"No more she in't, she and Dad both. Someone's gotta do the second password, and you know Rafé and Steffie can't. Unless – " she shot MacGyver a look. " 'ow 'bout you come do it, mate?"

"I don't have a password for the art vault," Mac replied.

"But you're the bloke 'oo set it all up, you and that other guy," Addie protested. "You did all the computer stuff."

"Yeah, but I didn't leave myself a back door. Neither did Willis."

"What – ?" Laura started to ask and then held up a hand. "No. Stop. Don't tell me anything. It'll just make my eyes glaze, I know it."

Addie and Stephanie had exchanged uncomfortable glances; now Addie made an elaborate face and stuck her fingers in her ears. "La la, la la la, ain't listenin'. Total divvy here. Dunno nothin'."

Laura laughed, shaking her head. "Fine, Addie. Whatever. Let's go fetch Mr. 'Oldy-Moldy Bucket-Head'."

The painting they brought back from the secure, climate-controlled art vault was one that MacGyver dimly remembered having seen hanging in Frau Brandenburg's study: it showed a grey-bearded man with bushy eyebrows, elegantly dressed, wearing an ancient-style helmet – presumably the inspiration for Addie's pet name.

" 'e's a bit of all right, in't he? He'll look better after 'e's been cleaned. My dad gets to do that one, the lucky sod," Addie announced cheerfully.

Mac peered at the painting. It was clouded with age, but Mac was sure it hadn't been included in the San Francisco exhibit. Even through the veils of accumulated grime that dimmed the power of the painter's vision, the eyes of the long-dead man seemed to meet MacGyver's gaze with pride, authority and confidence. Mac felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and looked over at Laura for enlightenment.

"This is another painting that doesn't exist," she said, her eyes glowing with an excited brilliance. "It's the real reason Ruth and Pete were able to talk me into staying on."

Mac raised an expectant eyebrow and waited.

"Towards the end of the war, with their empire disintegrating around them and their forces on the run, the Reich began to take steps to secure their loot. In Berlin, the collections from several museums were moved into a fortified building called the Flakturm Friedrichstein, to keep the artworks safe from bombing. When Berlin fell to the Russians in 1945, the place was torched."

"I read about that," Stephanie broke in. "They never knew who set the fire, but they didn't even try to put it out. It burned for _days_. It was a horrible loss. For the art, I mean. I don't think anyone died or anything."

"Yes, that's right," Laura continued. "It was an incredible collection – one of the finest in Europe. Over four hundred paintings were lost. For years, the art world hoped that something might turn up – the collection hadn't been guarded. And with so much looting done during the entire war by every side – including ours – there was some hope, ironically enough, that some items might have been stolen in the days before the fire broke out. But none of them ever turned up."

Mac cocked his head towards the painting. "Till now?"

Laura took a deep breath and nodded, her eyes afire from within. "Yes. You're looking at the only known survival of the Flakturm disaster."

Mac looked at the painting again, and the long-dead subject – probably some military commander from a forgotten war – returned his gaze with calm dignity. "Wow. Any idea who it belongs to?"

"As a matter of fact, this one happens to have been the legitimate property of the Kaiser Friedrich Museum of Fine Art in Berlin. We'll probably be able to repatriate it within the year. Dieter von Schüssel – you remember, the man Ruth set up to be our liaison with the German consulate in San Francisco – is already working on it. And in the meanwhile, we've got a puzzle on our hands."

MacGyver nodded. "Yeah, no kidding. If this one disappeared from Berlin itself at the end of the war – " he waved a hand towards the other two canvases on their stands, and the door to the art vault beyond. "What the heck is it doing with the rest of them? Sam Bolinski's family was Polish – I thought Frau Brandenburg's husband mostly served there and in Austria. How did she get her claws on this one?"

Laura had turned pale at the name; now she pressed her lips together and shook her head.

"I don't suppose she'd maybe shed a little light on the subject?" Mac asked.

"She's made it quite plain that the only terms under which she will consider cooperating are complete dismissal of all charges with a guarantee that none will be brought in the future, a public apology, and the return of her art collection."

Mac stood with his mouth agape. "_What?_"

Addie snorted. "Good thing, innit? We'd be in a twist if she'd asked for anything that wasn't effin' mental. She's a right nutter, that one."

Laura laughed in spite of herself. "Well said, Addie. I think you've summed it up perfectly." She glanced up at the clock. "I'm going to give Gordie a ring – he'll be coming in soon, and he said he wanted to work on the Rembrandt today. If he does, we won't have to lock it up again immediately."

MacGyver shot a look at Rafé, who had hung back through all the time the portrait had been discussed. The young man looked sullen and preoccupied; when Mac walked over to him, he shuffled his feet and looked ready to bolt. Mac caught at his arm as he tried to move away. "What's up, Rafé?"

"Nothin', man! I don' know what you talkin' 'bout."

"Bull."

As Rafé tried to shrug Mac's hand away, they both looked up to see that Addie and Stephanie had drawn close; they looked like they meant business. Stephanie was standing with hands planted on her hips, her face determined.

"Well?"

Now that she was facing him, Mac could read the glaring red letters on Stephanie's borrowed black T-shirt: 'go ahead, bitch about my f*&#ing attitude'. Her blonde hair was growing out of its expensive professional salon cut, and the bangs were beginning to shroud her eyes. Behind her, Addie had crossed her arms and was looking belligerent, her eyes with their raccoon eyeliner fixed on Rafé.

"What?" Rafé asked sullenly.

"Haven't you told him?"

Rafé shrugged.

Addie broke in. "C'_mon_, mate. Stop goin' off your trolley over it, awright? You _said_ he was kosher. You said you could trust 'im if you trusted _any_body."

Rafé looked back helplessly towards Mac, who raised his eyebrows and looked at him expectantly. "Looks like you're blown, pal. What's goin' on?"

- x -

"I can't believe that they were targeted like that. I can't believe I didn't see this coming."

MacGyver was pacing back and forth in Pete's office, gesticulating as he talked. Pete wished he would sit down – his eyes were aching from another long day, and watching Mac rattle around in the office like a pebble in a dice cup was even more tiring – but the younger man was too agitated to settle in one place.

"They've been approached four times so far, and the goons have leaned on them more heavily each time. They stopped going to the one club, HalScion, after the second encounter – they switched to the Oh Zone instead, and a couple days later the same two guys showed up there."

"And each time they've gone after Rafael?"

"Yeah. They didn't even talk directly to Addie and Stephanie at all, not at first."

Pete half-smiled. "I bet that made the girls pretty mad."

"Ohhh, yeah. The first time, they just kept asking Rafé about the project, the security and the computers – the second time, they started offering money, and kept upping the offer."

Mac stopped in front of the bland art print on Pete's office wall and stared at it without seeing it. "The last time, they made some nasty threats about Rafé's family, and a few ugly comments about Addie. They didn't threaten Stephanie, not yet; they seem to have some idea of who she is, which is another worry. But she heard everything they said." Some half-remembered details clicked into place in MacGyver's memory; he recognised the print as a Monet, but not a particularly interesting one. "After that, Rafé was afraid to go out at all, or to have anything to do with the computers, or even to be alone in the lab with the paintings. He's convinced that he'll be the fall guy if anything happens."

"Mac, it's no real surprise that someone's after the collection," Pete said in a voice intended to calm. "You and Willis started with the assumption that someone would."

"Yeah, but I didn't expect them to go after the _kids_!" Mac waved his hands in outrage. "That's . . . just . . . _wrong!_"

"Is it just because it's the kids?" Pete asked softly. "Or because they went after Rafael Alvarado?"

Mac sighed and dropped his hands. "Okay, Pete, yeah. It just stinks – that they'd assume he was the weak link."

"That may not be it." Pete shook his head. "Mac, you don't really care what those hoods think. You're afraid people will assume that, because of his background or his race, Rafael is the most likely to be dishonest – the most corruptible. But they may simply have guessed that he'd be the most vulnerable to pressure. And if it weren't for you, he might be. He's got less to lose, but what little he has isn't very well protected."

Mac's eyes narrowed and his jaw set. "Except by me."

Pete looked at him sharply, but before he could speak, they heard agitated voices outside and the door was flung open. Addie marched into the office, her heavy boots clumping noisily, Stephanie beside her and Rafé behind them.

"Right, then. What's it all about, hey? Rafé tells you what's gone down, and if you don't just do a bunk and he's left all awash, like!"

"Whoa!" Mac held up his hands and met Addie's belligerence eye to eye. "Back off, lady. We're on the same side. How'd you get into this part of the building anyway?" He glanced towards the door and saw Laura looking apologetic and Helen, Pete's assistant, looking flustered.

"My fault, MacGyver," Laura called ruefully. "I vouched for them to security . . . it was the only way to prevent a riot in the lab."

Pete stood up behind his desk, meeting the defensive glares with a calm smile. "Well, Ms. Carmichael, it's good to see you again. And Ms. Thompson – but I don't believe I've had the opportunity to meet Mr. Alvarado before this." He held out his hand to a suddenly confused Rafael. "Pete Thornton. Welcome to the inner sanctum of the Phoenix Foundation, where we're saving the planet, one stack of dull paperwork at a time." Rafé allowed Pete to shake his hand as Stephanie stifled a sudden giggle. Addie glared at her.

Rafé looked from Pete to MacGyver, and the scowl deepened on his face. "Hang on, man. Don' you be givin' me that shit."

Pete looked blandly surprised. "What?"

"That bureaucracy crap. Makin' out like all Phoenix does is, you know, run programs and save the world and all that shit."

Pete cleared his throat. "Mr. Alvarado, that _is_ what we do. I might point out that it's how you come to be here today."

"Yeah, yeah, right, but that ain't _all _that you do." Rafé turned a fierce face to MacGyver. "I tol' you 'bout those punks, and you go runnin' off to huddle with Mr. Thornton here. An' I _know_ you ain't just plannin' on havin' a nice little chat with the cops, 'cause they ain't _nothin'_ the cops can do. So whatcha gonna do?"

MacGyver was pretty sure he was fighting a losing battle, but he still had to put the best official face on it that he could. "Why do you think there's anything we _can_ do, other than hand it over to the police?"

Rafé exploded. "C'_mon_, MacGyver, don' you try to snow me! Don't you know folks tells stories? They say you used to be, I dunno, some kinda secret agent, like James Bond or somethin'. 'Cept ain't nobody never seen you use a gun. But they say you was in 'Nam."

Mac started to reply, but Rafé pressed on, leaning into Mac's face, his tone of voice climbing as his frustration mounted. "An' Ray, he seen you in action. He seen you _fight_, man. You make out like you just the handyman, the geek. But you way more than that. You think nobody knows?"

Mac hadn't moved or drawn back as the tirade continued. Now he spoke, very quietly and evenly. "What's your point, Rafé?"

"My point? I want a piece of that! I wanna help, man!"

"We all do," Stephanie interjected. "Don't shut us out."

MacGyver met Rafael's eyes unwaveringly. "No _way_, Rafé. It's too dangerous." Mac's own dark eyes clouded over. "You have _no_ idea what you're talking about."

"Mac . . . " Rafé made a face. "You seen where I live. You been there. Jus' walkin' out my _door_ is dangerous. Shit, I can get my head blown off sittin' in my own kitchen, man."

MacGyver gave a considering look at Addie – he'd been in her part of London, and he knew how rough it was. Addie would know what she was getting into, just as Rafé knew. Mac turned a doubtful eye on Stephanie.

She bristled.

"Oh, _no_. You're _not_ going to back out because of me, are you? Because my mom and dad are rich and all that crap? Please, pleeease, _don't_ tell me it has to be about that _again_!" She wrapped an arm each around Addie and Rafé, pulling them close, and met Mac's gaze with a proprietary glare. "This is the best thing that _ever_ happened to me, and I will _not_ let those creeps screw it up. _Please!_ Just forget about the goddamned _money_ and all that, okay? Whatever we can do, whatever you need us to do . . . just say the word. We're there."

Mac met Pete's doubtful gaze and raised an eyebrow. "You gonna argue with that?"

- x -


	5. gesture study 2

_**gesture study**_

The car made a sudden, sharp turn; in the trunk, MacGyver felt himself sliding sideways, and curled up tighter so that it would be his shoulder that hit the metal of the hatch. With his hands cuffed behind his back, it was the best he could do to spare his head from another crack.

As he slid, he felt several small hard objects rolling under him, and realised what they had to be: pens that must have fallen out of his pocket when his unconscious body was bundled into the trunk.

Mac felt the car straighten out again and accelerate. He rolled onto his side and groped with his cuffed hands through the scattered pens. He found a cheap ballpoint pen with a metal pocket clip on its cap, got a firm grip, and snapped the clip off.

_That'll do._

It took a lot longer to pick the lock on the cuffs when he couldn't see what he was doing, but he'd had practice. Even in the darkness, he found himself closing his eyes to concentrate, visualising the mechanism of the lock and the thin slip of metal in his fingers.

* * *


	6. Four: Cubist

**Aftershocks**

**_Four: Cubist_**

- x -

_There's some kind of music going on in every big city – and the most interesting ones have a kind of supercharged underground music scene, where the stuff that's gonna be popular next year is just now being invented. In a city like that, there'll be lots of little venues that appear and disappear almost overnight, kinda like flowers do out in the desert. They pop up suddenly in some barren spot, when the conditions are just right for just that moment, and most of 'em vanish just as quickly._

_I know a lot of musicians – a singer friend of mine claims that I originally started sleeping on my own couch as a way of guarding my turf against stray drummers – and it seems like every time one of them gets a gig, it's at some little club I've never heard of. But they're all pretty much the same, so I don't suppose it matters._

The wall of noise coming from the Oh Zone was almost visible under the sour glow of the streetlights. It was just past one in the morning, and the band was hitting its stride – and only narrowly avoiding blowing its speakers, as far as MacGyver could tell. He was glad to be outside the club, and not just to avoid the sheer impact of the decibels. Even at this distance, he imagined he could smell the ripe mixture of cigarettes, pot smoke, and rank sweat from the closely-packed crowd dancing in the mosh pit.

Mac saw them emerging from the club at last: Addie first, with Stephanie right behind her and Rafael bringing up the rear. Addie was fanning her flushed face; she shrugged out of her leather jacket and handed over to Stephanie, the swags of silver chains swinging and clashing against each other. Stephanie slipped the jacket on but did not zip it up; Addie ran a hand through her already-wild hair and turned to Rafé, who handed her a pack of cigarettes.

They'd given the full signal. The goons had shown up, and were following them out onto the street.

Mac slipped out of the nook where he'd been keeping watch and dashed across the street straight towards them, waving his arms and shouting. "Hey, you guys! _Hey!_ There you are!"

All three looked up, and Mac could see the disorientation and shock pass over all three faces. They had seen him in his disguise when they'd had their final briefing just before they'd headed out to the clubs; but that had just been MacGyver wearing funny clothes.

This was their first real look at Dexter, which wasn't the same thing.

The heavy, horn-rimmed glasses, complete with taping over the nose; the long sandy hair pulled back into an unattractive ponytail; the battered, faded jeans and the sloppy, half-tucked shirt under the stadium jacket. The facial expressions, shifting between gawking and grimacing, or reverting to an embedded sneer. And the voice: that harsh nasal bray, with the added irritating smarmy edge. As Dexter darted across the street, a car braked and swerved and a stream of obscenities rained down on him; he half-turned and made a rude gesture that MacGyver would never have made.

"Didja see that guy? What a nerve! What a dipstick!" he was prattling as he approached Rafé. The look of stunned astonishment on the young man's face was only just beginning to pass. "Hey, you guys, I thought you were gonna wait for me. How come you went off without me? I've been looking for you for, like, _hours_."

Addie was the first to regain her voice. "Oi, _fuck_. Rafé, you din't actually _tell_ that right little spod Dexter where we was gonna go tonight, did you?"

"'Course I didn't. I ain't stupid. Dexter, what the hell you doin' here?"

Dexter took a half-step backwards. "Lookin' for you, of course. I'd'a been able to leave earlier but I had to finish up some stuff on the computer."

"The computer – Dexter, you ain't supposed to go anywhere near them computers! That's part of your parole, ain't it?"

They'd gone over the details of their story several times, but Rafé was finding the whole thing surreal. The superior smirk on Mac's face was so completely unlike Mac, and it made Rafé want to hit him hard enough to knock the smirk off, as if that would bring back the familiar face of his friend.

"Hey, c'mon. Me stay away from the computers? What's it matter as long as they don't catch me, huh? And it's not technically pa-_role_, it's an ar-_range-ment_." Dexter sniggered.

"Look, Dexter, you may have Thornton and Willis and MacGyver and all them Phoenix eggheads fooled, but you ain't _never_ fooled me." Rafé found himself grabbing the obnoxious, too-familiar stranger by the front of his jacket and leaning into his face. He _knew _Mac was taller than he was and strong enough to knock him down, and yet somehow the man he was holding was smaller, shrunken by a cringe that made Rafé want to shake him – MacGyver – Dexter – like a rat. "You may be down with them computers and shit, but you are _**not**_ down with me and my friends, you hear?"

Dexter yelped and tried to pull away. "Stop it! Geez! All I did was offer to show you guys a couple of back doors – "

"I do _not_ wanna hear 'bout no back door, you hear me?" Rafé roared. "You think 'cause you white, they ain't watchin' you? They watchin' _me_ all the time, man! You stay away from me! I ain't lettin' you fuck this up for me!"

Dexter snivelled. "Why's everyone always so _mean_ to me? How come you're never nice?" He looked past Rafé's glowering face at Stephanie in her club-going attire, laughed nastily and leered. "I can be _real_ nice back."

A murderous scarlet haze burned in front of Rafé's eyes. "Don' you look at her like that, you _slime_ . . ." He shoved Dexter away from him, and heard another yelp of pain as the man went down hard on the rough pavement of the cracked sidewalk.

Rafé had forgotten that he was facing off against MacGyver, until he saw him sprawling at his feet. _Holy crap, I just . . . that's __Mac__ I just knocked down . . . if Breeze ever hear 'bout this, he gonna kick my ass so bad . . ._ He started forward, about to stammer an apology and help him up.

Dexter half-sat up and met Rafé's eyes, and recognised the thought. Behind the heavy glasses, just for an instant, Rafé caught a satisfied, approving gleam that was pure Mac. Then the whining stranger was back.

"I'll get you for this, Rafael! You just wait! You all just wait and see!"

Rafé pulled himself together and fell back into his role. "You threatenin' me, whitey?"

From where he was sprawled on the sidewalk, MacGyver felt the tremor of the approaching booted feet before the expected interruption. Mac recognised the two young men easily from the sketches Rafé had made: in their early twenties, clean-shaven with buzz-cut hair, one wearing a black bomber jacket, the other an Army surplus jacket. Both wore jeans and plain white t-shirts under their jackets, and heavy combat boots.

He and Pete had expected that a threat to the art collection would be most likely to come from the Mob – they were the driving force behind most of the high-end art thefts in California – and Mac had already put out feelers to his contacts in the syndicates. But these hoods weren't Mafia muscle. Addie had simply described them as skinheads, and she had been right.

Dangerously right. The brute in the bomber jacket was looking at Rafé like a trigger-happy kid who'd just gotten his first hunting license. His partner was leaning over Mac, offering him a hand up.

"Hey, easy there, buddy. This nigger givin' you a hard time? You want us to teach him a lesson?"

_Oh, man. Not good. If they think they don't need Rafé any more and try to jump him instead – _instead of accepting the hand, Dexter eyed the young man suspiciously. "Who're you?" he brayed.

"I'm Cody, and my buddy here's called Jake. An' we really don't like seeing niggers hasslin' white folks."

Dexter looked from the skinheads to Rafé and back again, screwing up his face. "Rafael's not black. He's Puerto Rican," he explained pedantically.

Jake snorted. "Can you _believe _this guy?" He looked over at Addie and Stephanie, and smirked. "Hey, why you dolls still hangin' with Sambo, here? Me an' Cody could show you a _real_ good time."

Stephanie reddened and tugged at Addie's jacket to cover herself up further, but Addie cocked her head to one side and gave him a considering look. "Ta very much for the offer . . . but I'd sooner be sodomised by a camel with the clap, if you take my meaning."

Jake's face went white with rage, and Cody's already thin lips narrowed even further. He turned away from MacGyver and started to advance on Rafé, but Mac chose that moment to shift position suddenly and awkwardly, as if he was trying to get up. One flailing foot caught Cody's ankle just at the moment when he was off-balance in mid-stride, and he blundered heavily into Jake, nearly knocking him over. Mac rolled as if he was still trying to scramble to his feet, and collided with both of them as they jostled each other. Jake staggered again, and Cody stumbled and almost fell.

The obscenity Jake had started to shout at Addie turned into a general bellow of rage. By the time the two skinheads had untangled themselves, Rafé and the girls were a block away, climbing into Stephanie's car.

"That fucking cu – "

"Leave it, Jake!" Cody snapped. "We can teach 'em a lesson some other time – explain just what happens to whores and race traitors." He turned back towards where MacGyver still lay sprawled on the sidewalk, his legs splayed out awkwardly, city grime and mud smearing his face and hands.

Dexter drew back from the skinheads, an anxious grimace on his face. Jake glared at him. "I oughta break you in two for that, asshole – "

"_Jake_." Cody's voice carried a ring of command. No question who was the alpha there: Jake continued to glower, but he stuffed his clenched fists deep into his pockets and settled back on his heels. Mac breathed a bit more easily. This time, when Cody extended a hand, he took it and let himself be hauled roughly to his feet.

"So. Your name's Dexter, huh? You another one of them Phoenix propeller-heads?"

Mac shrugged. "Who wants to know?" He gave another of Dexter's braying laughs. "You guys got a computer problem?"

Cody didn't laugh, but he smiled. "A friend of ours does. A real good friend. I think you'd like him. More important, I think he'd like you."

Mac made a face and scuffed one dirty tennis shoe against the pavement. "Most people don't. Don't like me, I mean. Who's your friend?"

"The Professor? Oh, he's just this guy. He's real impressed by smart guys like you." Jake started to say something, but Cody gave him a quelling look and turned back to Dexter. "You work for Phoenix, huh? You know your way around their computers?"

MacGyver smirked. "_They_ don't think I do. _They_ didn't even give me a password!"

"But I bet you got one anyway, huh?"

Another braying laugh. "My _first day_ there, I hacked their security protocols and gave myself a top-level clearance. You would not _believe_ the stuff that goes on there! It's, like, totally _incredible_!"

Cody nodded. "That's real cool, man. Real fine. Ya know, we're kind of public here – " He took Mac's arm and steered him away from the front of the Oh Zone, into the mouth of the alley that ran beside the club. MacGyver noticed that Jake slipped into the alley ahead of them, and that without being obvious, the two of them had fallen into positions that effectively blocked escape in either direction. _Not bad teamwork . . . though Jake's left his back open._

"_Much_ better. What we have here is a fine place for men to have a talk." Cody leaned in with a confidential air. "Now, you know that nigger and those two bints? They're all workin' on this art project – fuckin' around with big old fancy-ass paintings and shit. You know anything about that?"

" 'Course I do. I'm not _stupid_, you know."

"I bet you can get into the computer records for that, huh?"

Mac's eyes narrowed, and he peered from Cody to Jake suspiciously. "Why? Whatcha getting at?"

Cody reached into his pocket and pulled out a fat wad of bills. "Money, man. Sweet, green, folding currency. Fuck all that other art – let's talk about some fine old portraits of our great American presidents. Whatcha like doin' in your free time, Dexter? You got enough money to do everything you want? Buy yourself all the widgets in the world?"

MacGyver let his eyes focus on the bankroll and spark hotly. He licked his lips. Then he looked away abruptly.

"I just toldja I'm not _stupid_. Whereja get that much money? Who's this 'Professor'?"

Jake bristled. "What business do you got askin', geek?"

Cody waved him down. "Easy, Jake. You don't have to be so hard on him." He looked Dexter over coolly. "You might be the guy we need – if you're really as good as you say you are."

_Oh, good job, Cody_, Mac thought. _Way to set the hook._ He gawked at the skinhead. "You're after the paintings, aren'cha? They're worth a _lotta_ money!"

"See, Jake? Like he said, he's not stupid."

Mac licked his lips again. "So . . . your Professor guy needs help getting into the vault, huh?"

"More'n that, dude." Cody tucked the bankroll back into his pocket, watching as Dexter's eyes followed it. "You just bragged how you busted their computer security. That means you can erase their records, right?"

It was Dexter who gaped at Cody, but behind the slack expression, Mac's mind raced into overdrive. _Oh my god. That's it – if they steal the artworks before Laura publishes the official catalogue, and the computer record is wiped – there'd be no proof of what was actually gone. They could sell them on the open market and they'd be untouchable._

Dexter let out a braying laugh. "I get it! That's real clever." He smirked. "When's this Professor of yours need it done?"

"We'll let you know."

"Yeah? How'm I s'posed to get hold of you?"

"We'll be in touch."

Dexter sneered. "Yeah, right. How're _you_ gonna get hold of _me_?"

Cody unclipped a pager from his belt and held it out, waving Jake to silence when he started to object. "Cool it, Jake. The guy's right – we need to be able to reach him." Mac took the pager and turned it over in his fingers, studying it. It was a standard model, with no special marks or any sign of customisation.

"Keep that handy," Cody ordered. MacGyver noticed the tone of command that had crept into his voice. "If the Professor decides you're good enough for him to give you a chance, you'll get a message. Call the number you're given. Use a pay phone, and have a pen and paper ready before you call – the instructions will be given _once_." Mac nodded and slipped the pager into his pocket.

"And if you got any idea about ratting on us . . . "

Cody's sign to Jake was subtle. Mac had to admit they had their moves down – he nearly missed the signal, and it would have been tough to evade the manoeuvre if he'd wanted to. As Dexter, of course, he didn't even try.

In two quick steps, Jake slipped behind Mac, seizing his right arm and twisting it up behind his back in a painful armlock. Dexter's yelp of pain was choked off by a throttling arm flung around his neck, pressing against his throat until a black veil tinged his vision. The move had been fast, but MacGyver could feel the skinhead was slightly off-balance – he had underestimated Mac's height and was reaching farther than he'd braced himself for.

Mac had to block his own instincts. A shift in his own balance, a twist of the hip, and he could have slung Jake over his shoulder right into Cody – which wasn't at all what he needed to do. This was a cat-and-mouse game, with the mouse playing to lose. But it was hard not to fight back against the chokehold, to struggle ineffectually and bleat instead.

"Owww! Quit it!"

Cody stepped in close; MacGyver could smell cigarette smoke and stale beer on his breath as he grabbed Mac's jacket front and pulled him forward, increasing the pressure on his windpipe so that he coughed and gasped. Jake's hold on his twisted arm sent hot fire through his shoulder.

A knife appeared in Cody's other hand, and he held it up in front of Mac's face, twirling it between his fingers so that the streetlights caught gleams from the razor edge of the steel. He let the point of the knife rest against MacGyver's cheek, then trailed a slow line down towards Mac's neck. He smiled contemptuously, pulled the knife away and held it in front of Mac's eyes again.

MacGyver could see the swastika carved into the knife handle, deeply etched and accented with red paint. At the sight, he felt a black rage burn through him, and he had to fight himself all over again not to take the two hoods apart. He couldn't even let the fury show in his eyes; instead, he closed his eyes with a grimace and tried to turn his head away, tugging ineffectively against the armlock.

Cody signaled again, and Jake let Mac go. MacGyver stumbled a few steps away, still hunched over, rubbing his throat.

"You didn't hafta do that," he whined in Dexter's hoarse voice.

"Maybe not. But I think we all understand each other, right – geek?" Cody smirked.

"Yeah." Dexter studied his feet. "You betcha."

- x -

_I've never told Pete how much of a kick I get out of being Dexter. He may have guessed, though . . . I was a bit too eager to go do it again after the first time. When we originally created Dexter, it was just supposed to be for that one time._

_Of course, Pete's gotta understand. He put most of his lifetime into the spook business, while for me it was only a handful of years. When he needs to turn into someone else, he just does it. Most of him stays the same – he said once that's the best way – but whatever it is that changes, changes completely in a way you can't put your finger on._

_For me, it's different. All those years with the DXS – I occasionally had to pretend to be something I wasn't – stupid, dishonest, married, injured, crazy, dead – but I hardly ever had to pretend to be someone I wasn't. _

_Dexter's pretty much everything I'm not, and everything I've never wanted to be. He's not in control of his own life, and he can't even help himself, let alone anyone else._

_Dexter doesn't have to live up to any ideals or meet any standards. Nobody's supposed to like him, so it doesn't matter what anybody thinks. In a funny way, it's a big relief not having to care about that for a little while._

The next morning at the Phoenix art lab, MacGyver had hardly walked in the door when he was pounced on by Addie and both interns.

"MacGyver, you okay, man? No pieces missin'? What went down with those two?"

"Oi, it was brilliant, wa'n't it?" Addie chortled. She had wrapped her arms around Mac and was beaming up at him, her eyes shining. "You're a right crafty bugger, MacGyver. I'd'a never guessed it. I hated 'aving to leg it like that, I'd'a sooner stayed round for the next act! Did you nail 'em?"

Mac tried to look severe, but he felt too much of an inner glow himself not to grin at her enthusiasm, naïve or not. "It's never that simple, Addie."

"But did they buy it?" she persisted.

"Did you learn anything?" Stephanie put in.

"A bit," Mac replied. "It's a start, anyway." He detached himself from Addie, shrugged out of his leather jacket and looked around. "Where's Dr. Sandburg?"

"She ain't here yet," Rafé replied. "Dunno why not. Veronica just went to call her."

"Funny, that." Addie shook her head as she slipped into her lab smock. "You'd think she'd'a been 'ere first thing in the morning to get the news."

Mac put his head around the opening of the small office that served the art lab to find Veronica on the phone. "Yes, Laura, he just got here. Would you please calm down? He's here. He's _fine_. He doesn't look the least damaged." She paused to listen, twirling the phone cord in her fingers. "Yes, the kids are here too. They got here right at nine, just like usual, looking a bit short of sleep, just like usual."

MacGyver cleared his throat, and Veronica glanced over her shoulder and waved at him, still talking. "Well, I think Stephanie's pretty bummed out – you know Pete told them they'd have to stay away from the clubs till this is all cleaned up. You'd think they'd taken away her favourite puppy, the way she moped about it. Addie insists they can find music somewhere else for a while. Hang on."

She pressed the phone against her shoulder and asked Mac, "Have you been up to see Pete yet? Does he need to talk to Laura?"

"Yeah, I had to see both Pete and Willis already. He didn't say anything about Laura. Is she okay?"

Veronica turned back to the phone. "Are you on your way in? Good. Sure, I'll have the Van Dyck out for you to finish up. The photographer will be here mid-afternoon, I think."

She rang off and turned to find Mac still standing in the doorway, his fingers fiddling with a palette-knife that had been lying on top of a filing cabinet by the door. "Is Laura afraid I'm gonna let her interns get hurt?"

Veronica gave him a long look and shook her head slightly. "Well, yes. Of course she's worried about them."

MacGyver wondered why she seemed suddenly irritated. He was about to press further when Addie called to him. " 'Ey, MacGyver, there's a flash geezer 'ere lookin' for you."

Mac turned to see Gregory hastening towards him, his usually impassive face creased with concern. "Mr. MacGyver – I do apologise for interrupting you, but Mr. Collins would be most grateful for a few minutes of your time."

No-one at Phoenix had ever been able to discover any details of Gregory's history, or even his last name; speculation ran the gamut from the Foreign Legion to the Mob. What everyone knew for certain was that his loyalty to the Collinses was unshakeable. It was rare to see him alone.

"Gregory, what are you doin' here? Is Ruth okay?" He could see in Gregory's eyes that the answer was going to be _no_. "What's happened?"

"There's been – an incident. She's in hospital now – "

"_What happened_?"

"Please, sir. Moderate your voice. We're drawing attention. Will you come?"

MacGyver had already grabbed his jacket and was moving towards the door. "You know you don't need to ask. Where are we goin'?"

- x -


	7. Five: Pointillism

**Aftershocks**

**_Five: Pointillism_**

- x -

_I'm not sure which is worse – having to make a hospital visit when it's someone special I'm there to see – when I'd rather see them just about anywhere else – or waking up there myself. I've lost count of how many times I've done both. When it's me, it's usually a private room, and the first thing I hear when I wake up is how lucky I am to be alive at all. _

_I never wake up feeling lucky, though. _

_Especially not if someone else wasn't so lucky. __And then there's the disorientation of trying to figure out how much time has gone past in the world while you were out of touch._

_But private rooms go with the territory – it's the same thing when it's a colleague. Since I hate feeling helpless, and I hate being seen that way, I'm usually grateful for the isolation – or I would be, if my friends ever left me alone._

_I do know that the very worst of all is not being able to be there when you're needed . . . when someone needs you, and you aren't there, can't manage it. I've done that, too. I guess it's only been a few times . . . but even one is too many._

MacGyver threw Gregory a puzzled look as they crossed the lobby of the Cedars-Sinai Hospital. He had spotted the plainclothes private security guard idling inconspicuously near the gift shop as Gregory guided him to the wing where the high-end private rooms were located – and he knew that the guard had spotted them first. He wondered if they had a second man covering the side entrance. Probably.

"What's Ruth doin' in an LA hospital?"

"It was thought . . . more prudent . . . to move her as soon as we were confident that she would take no harm from the relocation."

"You're keeping her whereabouts dark."

"Exactly. She is here under an assumed name; Mr. Collins is staying at the Bel Age Hotel nearby, also under false colours."

Gregory seemed calm on the surface, but he didn't _feel _calm to MacGyver. "What's goin' on? I thought you said Ruth got mugged." Mac's eyes narrowed. "This isn't the first 'incident', is it?"

Gregory cleared his throat. "There has been nothing certain."

"The Mustang."

"Precisely. And three weeks ago, an unknown person in an unfamiliar vehicle attempted to force us off the road."

"And you're sayin' that's 'not certain'?"

"Mrs. Collins prefers to hold out for it being coincidence. Mr. Collins is less sanguine. After she was attacked the night before last, he insisted on taking precautions."

"Kinda late to start."

"He did remark on the need to keep his remaining horses securely in the barn."

The private room was bathed in sunlight and awash in flowers – which must have been entirely Henry Collins' doing, since Ruth was there incognito. Mac hadn't even thought to get any.

"Ruth." MacGyver stood in the doorway of the private room, shaking his head reprovingly. "What did I tell you about getting into fights on the playground?" He pointed a long accusing finger at her. "You are _so _grounded."

He was inwardly shocked at the sight of her: her face was a mass of bruises, with a split and swollen lip and one black eye in full bloom. Stitches showed on a ragged cut on her forehead; her left hand and arm lay outside the covers, and black and purple bruises starkly mottled the pale skin. The indomitable spark in her eyes was still there, but it was at a low ebb.

Ruth grimaced at him. "_Must_ you make me laugh, MacGyver? It really does hurt, even with all the painkillers they've poured into me. Good God, how I _do_ hate drugs."

She peered past Mac, piercing Gregory with a probing look as he tried to retreat into the hallway. "Gregory, I don't remember telling you I wanted to see MacGyver. Not that the sight of him isn't truly welcome. But still. I trust you have an explanation?"

"Mr. Collins wished to see him, and Mr. MacGyver insisted on seeing you first. I believe he wanted to be certain you were all right."

"Depending entirely on how broadly you're willing to define 'all right'." Ruth glanced around the room. "As you can see, Henry has already raided every florist in Los Angeles County, so that angle is nicely covered. You'd better talk to him, MacGyver – and if he's planning a guerrilla assault on the Huntington Botanical Gardens, I'm counting on you to dissuade him."

"I'll do my best." Instead of retreating, Mac exchanged a glance with Gregory; the older man nodded and withdrew into the hallway, shutting the door. Mac walked over to Ruth's bed.

She gave him a sardonic look. "Forgive me, but I'm not in a terribly social mood right now. I should have informed the staff that madame is not at home to visitors this morning. _Is_ it morning? What day is it, anyway?"

"Yes, it's morning. It's Wednesday. Ruth, what the heck _happened_?"

Ruth lay back on her pillows. "I was mugged, MacGyver. That's all." She glanced away from him, studying one of the magnificent arrangements of sunflowers and chrysanthemums. "I'm an old woman. I don't bounce back the way I once did."

"Bull."

She looked at him sharply. "If that was intended for a compliment, it lacked a certain _je ne sais quoi_."

Mac met her eyes evenly. He folded his arms and settled back on his heels. He looked ready to stand there all day.

After a long, stubbornly silent moment, Ruth sighed and let her head fall back again. "Damn your eyes. What part aren't you buying?"

"Weellll . . . I get that laughing hurts and you don't like the painkillers." Mac unfolded his arms and hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets. "C'mon, Ruth, stop stalling. What the heck are you up to? What brought this on?" When she still hesitated, he added, "It's something to do with the Brandenburg case, isn't it? Pete can't do anything, Phoenix is boxed in . . . but you don't give up that easy. Not when there might be Nazis involved."

Ruth sighed. "Ex-Nazis."

"D'you really think there _is_ such a thing? Isn't that kind of like 'ex-murderer'?"

"I think you can guess my answer to that."

"Okay, lemme speculate a little. Maybe – just maybe – you got hold of a copy of Frau Brandenburg's files. You're pretty good at getting what you want, after all. Maybe you've been following up on her list of folks who are supposed to be part of their big scheme for a Nazi takeover – the inquiries that Pete can't make."

Ruth's lips tightened, but she didn't reply. Mac pressed on.

"And if that's what you've been doing – maybe you're not talkin' to me because you don't want me to talk to Pete?" Mac saw a spark of distress in her eyes, and his mind made a rapid leap in the direction he suddenly knew was the right one. "No – it's because you don't want to make me choose between Pete and you."

Ruth looked cornered. "Has Willis been talking to you?"

"Nope, but you just confirmed my next hunch." Mac picked up the call button that hung beside Ruth and turned it over idly in his fingers. "Ruth, back when we were all up in the Bay Area for the art exhibit – I thought we had an understanding. I've been waiting for you to get in touch. If there's a choice to be made, I already made it."

Ruth spoke softly. "What about Pete?"

"He knows me real well, and he reads signals. I don't think he'll ask too many questions, not unless I have answers."

Ruth retrieved the call button from MacGyver. "I really don't have anything for you yet. And I didn't want to tap you until I had something . . . so far, there's very little evidence yet that the 'conspiracy' ever existed, except in Frau Brandenburg's deranged ego. However . . . "

"Seems to me there's a real big difference between 'very little' and 'none'."

"Well, yes. But if you were afraid that you'd wake up some day to find that California has been annexed into a new Aryan homeland, I can say with assurance that that was never anything more than a pipe dream. I've been comparing notes with the Southern Poverty Law Center and the Anti-Defamation League – "

"So you _did _get copies of Frau's files."

"Well, of course I did. The very idea that we might have escaped Nazis buddying up with our own home-grown racist thugs gave me nightmares for weeks. The one consolation I ever had, knowing that there were Nazis who had slipped the net after the war and escaped to other countries, was that they hadn't been able to carry the insanity with them or start it up again. Every once in a while, one of them is caught and held accountable . . . and time will eventually take care of the rest. It will take care of all of us, on both sides. We're a dying breed."

"Don't say that," Mac said fiercely.

Ruth patted his hand. "Oh, don't worry. I have no plans to go gentle into any good night."

"Then why didn't you recertify as a field operative last year? You let it lapse instead. Did you think I didn't notice?"

Ruth glowered at him. "Well, damn your nosiness."

"You didn't answer the question."

"True enough. I did not."

They locked eyes for several moments before Mac threw up his hands. "Okay, _fine_. But don't think I'm not gonna get on your case about it again later."

"You _have_ made recertification a damned sight more difficult."

"Nothin' you can't handle."

"Says the man who won't renew his marksmanship credentials. What are you going to do if you ever actually have to use a gun again?"

"I already have. They make great wrenches."

Ruth leaned back on her pillows and laughed, wincing as she did so.

Mac grinned. "So what's your next step with Frau's files?"

"More of the same – picking through lists, eliminating dead ends and flights of demented fancy. It is quite legal in this country to hold detestable opinions – and with a very few exceptions, it's not illegal to express them. Although it does have consequences; people tend to forget that. It _is_ illegal to lie on a citizenship application."

"Yeah – Pete says they haven't decided whether to deal with Frau Brandenburg here, or ship her back to Germany."

Ruth nodded. "I have to admit that the project is giving me an entirely new set of nightmares. I never _wanted _to understand racists, and I still don't. After spending so many years fighting on behalf of freedom and human rights, it's infuriating to see people hide behind those freedoms for the purpose of denying them to others. MacGyver, if you don't stop fiddling with my call button, the nurse is going to come in here and discover _us_ conspiring."

Mac looked sheepish as Ruth confiscated the call button again. "Tell me how the art project is going. Has your young protegé settled down all right?"

"Rafé's doing okay. He and Stephanie went through a few bumps, but nothing they couldn't work out. We've already got someone after the paintings, though – "

"What a surprise. Fill me in." She nodded as Mac gave her a quick summary. "How charming. A new threat already. Well, it's not as if we didn't expect it. How is Laura taking it?"

"Laura? She's . . . " Mac stopped himself before he said _fine_. "I'm not sure. Kinda edgy. She hasn't been hassled herself, but she's pretty upset about it anyway."

"Damn. So much for the feeble hope that it was my fevered imagination working overtime. MacGyver, I'm worried about Laura. She has not been inclined to discuss it, but I'm afraid . . . she was dreadfully upset over the entire Brandenburg incident. Did you realise that?"

"Um, well . . . " MacGyver shrugged.

"I can believe that having someone try his damnedest to kill you has been part of your job description for so long that the novelty has quite worn off," Ruth said tartly. "But for most people, it is, shall we say, a unique experience. And a shattering one. Pete had a dreadful time convincing Laura to stay on with the project, you know."

"Yeah, I know. Ruth, having someone gunning for you – it's not anything you really _want_ to get used to."

"Have _you_? Gotten used to it?"

Mac's lips tightened. "Nope."

Ruth nodded. "I thought I did when I was younger, but that seems a very long time ago." She drummed her fingers on her bedspread. "I'm rather surprised to hear your skinheads are being used as front men for art thieves – but I doubt they're being directed by whoever's in charge of them in the white supremacist movement. If anyone is. In charge of them, I mean."

"What?"

"It's a peculiar breed of enemy. They have organisations, but they're entirely decentralised. They're very hard to nail down because of that. I'm not certain whether it's shrewd tactics or paranoia – or a preference for keeping groups small enough so that the men in charge can glory in the sense of power, even though their kingdoms are small."

Mac nodded. "If they actually got together, they'd have to agree on who'd be the boss."

"Exactly – which is why the idea of an escaped Nazi pulling them all into harness together is such a nightmare. For the present, their power to do real damage is seriously curtailed by that same lack of unity. Thank God for that. It's the only thing that's letting me sleep at night."

There was a tap on the door, and Gregory appeared. "Mr. Smith has arrived, ma'am. Do you want him to wait, or to come back later?"

"You'd better let him come in, Gregory – if I make him wait he'll only get cross, and I don't want him cross."

MacGyver raised an eyebrow. " 'Mr. Smith'?"

"Believe it or not, it's his real name – I'm borrowing him from Phoenix' Legal department."

"Isn't that sailin' a bit close to the wind?"

"Very likely. But as long as I'm stuck here in an LA hospital, I can at least follow an odd thread or two. As I told you, most of them are leading exactly nowhere."

A young man bustled in: fair hair, grey eyes, grey suit, navy tie, brown briefcase. He smiled blandly and proffered a hand. "Mrs. Collins? Ryan Smith. I'm honoured to meet you in person – and I've been strictly enjoined to do whatever you ask, short of actually subverting the Constitution." He shook Ruth's hand briskly – somewhat too briskly; Mac saw the faint crease of repressed pain in her eyes as he squeezed her fingers.

Mac shook his hand in turn. "MacGyver."

Ryan's eyes widened. "No kidding? _The_ MacGyver?"

Mac winced. "Aw, c'mon. Don't believe all the stories you hear. How long have you been at Phoenix anyway?"

"About ten months."

The lawyer's scrutiny made Mac feel like a lab specimen. He shrugged. "Should I ask just how bad the stories are this year?"

"Our head counsel calls you MacLiability."

"Ouch." Mac heard Ruth chuckle and glanced at her in time to see the wince that followed the laugh. "Double ouch."

She waved an irritable hand at him. "Off with you, MacGyver. Come back tomorrow and bring your protegé with you. I've been wanting to meet him, and if I shall go quite mad if I don't get some company."

"I thought you said you weren't in a social mood."

"I lied. I am merely in a cranky mood, and subject to sudden shifts of temperament."

"I noticed."

- x -

Henry Collins had taken up residence in the presidential suite of the Bel Age Hotel, barely a mile from the Cedars-Sinai complex. As they ascended in the private lift, Mac studied Gregory thoughtfully. "Gregory, I gotta ask. What were you? OSS?"

Gregory gave a faint smile. "Does someone have a bet on the answer?"

"Yeah, there's a pool, but I'm not part of it. I'm just curious. I've wondered for years."

"If I tell you, will you tell others?"

"Not if you tell me not to."

The smile deepened. "I shall bear that in mind."

When the lift stopped, Gregory gestured to MacGyver to remain in the foyer for a moment. Mac heard him clear his throat before he began to speak. "Mr. Collins? Mr. MacGyver is here, from the Phoenix Foundation. You recall that you had asked me to bring him here so you could discuss Mrs. Collins' safety."

MacGyver had only met Henry Collins a few times over the years – since his retirement, he tended to keep a low profile, and spent much of his time in his own greenhouse, where he cultivated endangered species of indigenous Californian wildflowers for transplant back into reclaimed habitat. The last time Mac had seen him, he had seemed vague and abstracted, except when he'd been talking about his plants.

There was no vagueness now. Collins turned away from the window where he had been staring out towards the ocean, dimly seen beyond the pall of smog, and his eyes were sharp and thoughtful. He shook Mac's hand firmly.

"Thank you for coming here, MacGyver. Pretty damned arrogant, I know – my expecting you to drop whatever you've got in hand and rush over here at a moment's notice – don't think I don't appreciate it. Would you like a drink? No, that's right, you don't drink, do you? I understand you've already been to the hospital to see Ruth."

"Yeah."

"Your thoughts?"

"You need to ask? She looks awful. How'd it happen?"

"A board meeting ran late at the museum; she was waiting for Gregory to bring the car around. Gregory was delayed by the car's failure to start."

"Sabotage again?"

"As far as I'm concerned. It's too wildly convenient to have been a coincidence. Ruth was assaulted by a young hoodlum who jumped her from behind. He made no demands for money or anything else before he attacked, although he did take her purse when he fled. She wasn't able to get a good look at him – you saw how badly she was beaten. I personally doubt she was intended to survive the encounter."

"How _did_ she survive?" Mac asked bluntly.

"She still knows a few tricks they don't teach in school. She remembers breaking his wrist, and she thinks she broke his nose as well." In spite of himself, a warm flash of pride lit Collins' eyes. "The noise drew the attention of the night watchman at the museum, and the attacker ran – taking Ruth's purse with him, as I said, but I suspect only as a subterfuge to support the notion that it was an ordinary mugging." He hesitated. "Did she talk to you – that is, did she say anything about, well, her current, um, project?"

"You mean the Brandenburg business? Yeah – I kinda had to twist her arm out of its socket, but she finally spilled."

Collins sighed, and Mac saw how deeply the worry lines had creased his face. "I am chagrined at how little I can do to protect her. Admittedly, for most of her life, she's done an admirable job of protecting herself." The gleam of pride had returned. "Ruth has buried two husbands already. I'm a selfish old man, MacGyver – I intend for her to outlive me as well, and not through any misadventure on my part. I don't think I could live without her."

Mac swallowed, but spoke lightly. "Hey, I don't think you have to worry about that. Ruth's tough."

"Tough, yes. And stubborn. She was vehemently dissatisfied with my having her removed to Los Angeles. She was likewise annoyed when I told her I was going back to the Bay Area tonight."

Mac blinked. "I thought you'd want to stay with her."

"I do." Collins' voice was flat and curt. "But the best thing I can do to protect her is to return to San Francisco and make sure the papers take notice that I'm there – they will readily assume that Ruth is too, and it will keep eyes directed away from her current location. It's not impossible that I might be a target as well, but we both know that Ruth has a much higher profile, especially these days." He shook his head. "Most of the enemies I made during my own professional career are overseas or underground . . . mostly the latter. And they were never especially dangerous – or at least, not this vicious in a physical sense."

MacGyver had sat down on one of the suite's lush leather sofas and was watching Collins as the old man wandered around the room, from the huge windows with their wide views and discreet curtains to the broad sideboard with its blandly tasteful floral arrangement and battery of liquor bottles. The bottles, he noticed, were unopened and untouched. He was pretty sure he knew where the conversation was going to go next.

"MacGyver . . . I'm not certain how best to ask this . . . "

"You want me to keep Ruth safe while she's here in LA."

"When you put it that baldly, I cringe. Both because it's a dreadful thing to ask of you, and because it's so clearly impossible. But will you try? If it hadn't been for you, she might well have died in that damned car the night of the museum reception."

"For all we know, I was the one who was supposed to be killed. Ruth could've been incidental."

"True enough." Collins sighed. "Like most old men, I tend to focus on the centre of my own universe. Unlike most old men, that isn't always myself. Have there been any further attempts on your own life since then?"

"Um . . . "

Collins looked at MacGyver ruefully. "On second thought, please don't answer that. I don't think I want to know."

Mac grinned. "Maybe you should ask Ruth to protect _me_. Keep us both outta trouble." He picked up the remote for the TV, which lay next to him on the side table, and turned it absently over and over in his hands. "You should know I'm already working on something else."

"Yes, yes, of course. Aren't you always?" Collins turned back to the window and stared out at the broad sweep of Beverly Hills. "I can make it worth your while."

Mac flushed with temper, and Collins winced with embarrassment. "I beg your pardon. That was unworthy. Ruth is much better at this these days than I am. You'd hardly mistake me for a diplomat now, would you?"

Mac set down the remote and stood up. "You've got her pretty well secured at Cedars-Sinai; I'll keep an eye on her, and see what I can do for her when she's ready to leave."

Relief flooded the old man's face. MacGyver held up a warning hand. "But it won't help if she keeps inviting folks to drop in. There must be at least four people at Phoenix who already know where she is, and that's three too many."

Collins nodded. "Ruth and her damned web of contacts . . . I don't know how she remembers them all."

- x -

In spite of his misgivings, MacGyver brought Rafé with him the following day when he visited Ruth. Rafé was better at keeping his mouth shut than most adults.

But not even his rough background made him immune to the sight of Ruth's battered face. "Shee-it, Mac, she looks _bad_. Who the hell would beat up an old lady like that? Man, if she was my gramma, I'd . . . "

MacGyver shushed him; Ruth had been on the phone when they arrived, and she was now ringing off. She beckoned to them.

"You must be Rafael Alvarado."

"Yes'm." Rafé shook Ruth's hand, very carefully. "Mrs. Collins, Mac says you the one set me up with the internship. He thought I'd like the chance to thank you in person."

"You're quite welcome. Have you always been interested in art?"

"Well, uh, I always liked to draw an' stuff. My mama used to keep me out of trouble by lettin' me draw on grocery bags – she'd get paper ones 'stead of plastic just so's I'd have somethin' to draw on."

"From what I understand of your background, that might not have been an easy interest to pursue."

"It ain't something you talk 'bout to your homies, if that's what you mean. I don' do taggin'. But they was this mural project goin' on at the Challengers Club, an', well – "

Mac broke in as the young man stumbled for words. "Rafé did all the layout and sketchwork. He's amazing. A total natural."

Rafé turned red and stammered, and Ruth smiled. "And now you're spending every day surrounded by some of the great masterpieces of Western art, and probably wondering what all the fuss is about – all those dull pictures painted by dead white men."

"Uh – well, kinda . . ." Rafé looked nervously at MacGyver, as if he'd been caught messing around in class.

"I presume Laura Sandburg has filled you in on the collection's sordid past. Phoenix may be able to clean the grime off the paintings, and restore at least some of them to the rightful heirs of their murdered owners, but nothing will wash the blood out of their history. Have you taken the time to look closely at any of the paintings and tell yourself, 'Someone died for this'?"

Mac watched as the image settled into Rafé's imagination. He could almost see into Rafé's mind, as the faded paintings and the barely-noticed details of stuffy history sparked into vivid life and relevance.

"If you're dealing with something people have died for, and you don't understand why they bothered, pay attention until you figure it out. And don't forget the other side."

"Other side?"

"Any time people have died for something, it means there were others who killed for it. If you can't understand _them_, you have only half the picture, which is often more misleading than no picture at all."

They were interrupted by the electronic warble of a pager. Ruth raised an eyebrow at MacGyver.

"Don't tell me. Your connection's calling you about a smuggled camel."

"Nope, not this time." Mac grabbed a pen and jotted down the number that had appeared on the pager's display. "Can I use your phone?"

Ruth waved a desultory hand, and watched as Mac dialed. "MacGyver, that's one of the Phoenix numbers. I thought you got that pager from your charming skinhead playmates."

"I left their pager with Willis – he's gonna try to trace the call. He set it up so that pager forwards to this one."

Ruth exchanged a look with Rafé. "Ten bucks says the phone numbers don't match."

"Rafé, do _not _take any bets from Ruth, you got it? And Ruth, would you lay off corrupting the younger generation for once? – hey, Willis. Did you get it?"

"Working on it. You know we have to work through the phone company – that means warrants and red tape, and that doesn't happen instantaneously. Keep your shirt on."

"And you know I have to call the number they sent me, and pronto – and it's probably gonna be instructions for a meet." Mac read the number to Willis. "I may not have another chance to call in, so do what you can. Is Pete there?"

"I've got a call out to him. Mac, you be careful, okay? Don't do anything stupid?"

"Define 'stupid'."

"It's kind of like 'art' – I can't define it, but I know it when I see it."

Mac rang off. "Ruth, can Gregory get Rafé back to the Phoenix building? I gotta go make a phone call."

"Mac, what you talkin' 'bout? You just made one!"

"Pay phone this time, Rafé. Next step towards catchin' the bad guys."

"What about those two creeps from the club, man? I thought that was what you wanted!"

"They're just dumb kids with a grudge." Mac's eyes were pools of shadow. "I want whoever's running them."

- x -

_The sad thing is that Dexter isn't really all made up. When I was at Western Tech, there was a computer whiz kid there – brilliant guy, maybe the smartest person I've ever met. Freddie could make a computer do __**any**__thing. And that was all he ever did. He had no friends, didn't like anybody, didn't even like talking to the other wonks and geeks. Most folks thought he was better off left alone, but I kept trying to connect with him._

_When Freddie didn't show up at the computer lab for five days running, I was the only one who went looking for him. I was the one who found him. I didn't have to turn off the gas oven – he'd rigged a timer for it._

_So that's where Dexter gets his edge, and the anger that makes him spark. I never completely understood what Freddie was so mad about, but it was there. And when I use Dexter to pull something off – to help someone – I feel like it's something I can do for Freddie, even now, all those years later._

MacGyver parked his truck half a mile away from the warehouse on East Olympic Boulevard and covered the remaining distance on foot. He could hear the deep growl of the freeway traffic not far away, where the Santa Monica and Pomona Freeways met the Santa Ana in a never-ending confluence of diesel fumes and red taillights; but even with the covering noise he moved softly, circling round to approach his destination from a different direction, slipping through the shadows as softly as rubber soles and long practice allowed.

A single light burned over the side entrance to the warehouse where he'd been directed; as promised, the door was unlocked. He took a deep breath and adjusted Dexter's horn-rimmed glasses. MacGyver would have opened the door carefully and slipped inside after taking a quick look around.

Dexter looked anxiously over his shoulder, pushed the door open in a single nervous movement and walked in. He let it slam shut behind him and jumped at the sound. No-one was in sight; the ranks of crated goods stretched away eerily into the shadows under the dim after-hours lighting.

"Cody?" he called out hoarsely. "Jake?" He let his voice edge into a petulant whine. "Hey, you guys. This isn't funny."

The skin prickled on the back of Mac's neck. _Time to bail? But if I do, the lead goes dead . . . _He thought he saw something in the shadows down one aisle of crates, and hurried forward. Yes, there was something on the floor . . . he bent down and peered ahead.

What had looked like a crumpled pile of rags resolved into the still form of Cody, lying in a motionless heap on the warehouse floor. The close-cropped hair did nothing to conceal the streaks of blood that stood out dark against the pale skin of his scalp.

Mac's reactions collided and fought with themselves. His immediate instinct was to hurry forward and kneel next to Cody, check his pulse and make sure he was still alive. That was MacGyver's impulse.

Dexter let out a squawk of alarm and jumped back in horror at the sight.

As he turned to run, he sensed the presence that had come up behind him, but he had only a glimpse of two burly figures looming up in the shadows before the blow fell and the lights went out.

Darkness.

- x -


	8. gesture study 3

_**gesture study**_

Pete Thornton was still in his office, but he wasn't getting any work done. When the phone rang, he started and swore, knocking his pen to the floor – it was the ring for an internal line. Not MacGyver.

He made an guess as to the caller – there weren't that many people at Phoenix who would still be in the building at this hour. "Willis?"

"Yeah. How'd you know – never mind. Any word from Mac?"

"No." Pete's voice was curt, but Willis knew it was from worry and not anger. "I asked the police on that beat to keep an eye out – they've spotted Mac's truck. It's been parked in the same place off of Olympic Boulevard since early evening. And they haven't seen any activity in the area in all that time."

"Oh, hell. I was hoping he'd be back by now."

"No such luck." Pete rubbed his tired eyes. "You calling about anything else?"

"Uh, yeah. You remember back when we were testing the new programming for the personnel records?"

"What about it?" Pete let his head rest in his hand. When Willis started talking about the Phoenix computers, it usually meant trouble of one sort or another.

"Weeelll . . you see, Mac and I put together an entire dummy file on Dexter – his whole past, his arrest record, all that. Just for fun, mostly, and so we could run tests. Well, when Mac decided to reactivate the identity, we . . . well, we kind of fed Dexter's profile into the computer as an active Phoenix associate."

" 'Kind of' – _Willis_ – "

"C'mon, Pete, Mac _said_ it was a good background! You yourself sponsored Dexter personally. Phoenix is trying to rehabilitate him. We've even got an imaginary psychiatrist who thinks his antisocial attitude will respond to therapy." There was a long moment's silence. "Pete?"

Pete massaged his temples. "Your point being?"

"The file's been accessed."

"_**What?**_"

"Someone's been reading that file, recently, and it wasn't me. Or you."

"Oh, god. Someone here at Phoenix?"

"Yeah. Has to be."

After Willis had rung off, it took Pete five minutes to spot his pen where it had rolled under the desk. He finally realised he was looking right at it.

_Where are you, MacGyver?_

* * *


	9. Six: Neo Classical

**Aftershocks**

**Six: Neo-Classical**

- x -

By the time the car finally came to a stop, MacGyver's headache had begun to ebb slightly. But when the trunk lid was thrown open, the white-hot beam of a heavy-duty flashlight stabbed directly into his eyes, and the shock of the glare brought back the pounding. He didn't have to fake the flinch and the yelp of pain.

"He's awake."

"No shit. C'mon, buddy. Close your eyes and the nasty light will go away. Close 'em nice and tight."

Mac had already squeezed his eyes shut in reaction; he could see nothing of the men outside the car anyway, other than dim silhouettes. The red haze beyond his closed eyelids grew brighter – they were shining the flashlight directly at his eyes, forcing him to keep them closed. Then the red glow was blotted out by a blindfold. Rough hands grabbed him by the jacket and hauled him out of the car. With his hands still held behind his back by the handcuffs, he was an awkward dead weight between them.

Dexter staggered and whined. "What's going on? Who are you guys? Where am I? I didn't do anything!"

Harsh laughter, and the unmistakable pressure of a cold gun muzzle against his back. "Shut up! Move it."

The air around them had a cold bite to it, and a sharp scent of pine; beyond the sound of rough voices and feet in heavy boots lay a deep stillness, an absence of city sounds. In place of the buzz of traffic, there was the murmur of wind in pine boughs – similar, but not the same – and an occasional distant whisper of a car or truck a long way off. _Wonder how long I was out . . . we must be up in the mountains. That last stretch of driving wasn't even on pavement._ Mac could feel the extra set of bumps and bruises he'd collected from when the car had bounced and swayed on the rougher road surface. _If I get the chance to get away, I can probably lose 'em, depending on how deep we are into the woods. Be a long walk home, though._

Creaking hinges of a door; a wash of warmer air, and the mud and gravel underfoot gave way to wooden boards. A new set of smells – cigarette smoke, woodsmoke, bacon grease and sweat, machine oil and kerosene, unwashed wool and dog. And the sound of a dog: the warning bark and the low growl to greet an unfamiliar intruder into established territory. Dexter shrank back from the growling.

"Is that a dog?" Sneeze. "Keep it away from me! I'm allergic!"

More laughter, mocking and mean-spirited. "Hey, buddy, no sudden moves, now. I don't think Rocco likes you."

"It's mutual! I don't like dogs!"

"Yeah? Well, I bet Rocco here will keep you outta trouble till Hunter gets back." The growling deepened. Mac felt himself shoved into a hard wooden chair. "Rocco. See this guy? Watch him. He moves, take a piece outta him."

Mac let his voice rise to a terrified pitch. "What are you doing? Don't leave me here!" _Bre'r Fox, don't throw me into the briar patch._

Booted feet retreating across the room; a second voice speaking softly at the doorway.

"You sure that's a good idea?"

"He'll be okay 'long as he don't give no trouble. If he does, we'll hear it."

A click as the door closed, and the rasp of a bolt being thrown. The footsteps faded away down a hall.

Once he was sure they were gone, MacGyver sat up from the slouch he affected as Dexter, and rolled his shoulders to ease the cramp of having his arms pinned behind him for so long. He heard the dog give a warning growl, turned his head in the direction of the sound and spoke in a calm, cheerful, steady voice. "Hey, Rocco. You there? You okay?"

Moving slowly and gently, Mac slipped his right hand free of the handcuff. Once he'd finally gotten the lock open, he'd wedged it with part of a plastic bottle-cap that he'd found in the trunk so that it wouldn't latch; since then, he'd been keeping hold of his right wrist with his left hand, making sure the cuffs stayed in place. He heard Rocco growl again, but he continued to move as before – slowly, smoothly, confidently, lifting a hand to his face to slip the blindfold off and look around, blinking at the light. His eyes swam briefly, but the headache was easing off.

As he'd guessed, the building was some kind of cabin: rough-hewn wood and heavy furniture. The room was an office or den, with a large desk at one end: a single small file cabinet, no phone, no computer, and the bulky black typewriter looked like an old manual model. There was a fireplace with a trophy deer's head over it, and a well-stocked gun rack on the wall. The room had a single electric light, but there was also a hurricane lantern on the desk and another on the mantle. Built-in shelves held files and pamphlets, boxes of ammunition, miscellaneous gear and tools, but the only book he saw in the room was a massive copy of the Bible sitting on the desk.

To the left of the mantle, a large Confederate flag hung on the wall; to the right, the scarlet and black of a Nazi flag, like a great crimson bloodstain.

Mac suppressed a shudder and leaned back casually in the chair, studying the dog in front of him, careful not to look it directly in the eyes. _German Shepherd mix – and whatever you were mixed with, it sure didn't make you any smaller._

"Hey there, buddy. They treatin' you right?" Mac kept his tone of voice light and confident, and Rocco's ears laid back, then pricked up. " 'Course they are. You're a good dog. I can see that." He carefully eased himself from the chair onto the floor, talking smoothly as he did so. "And I hear you're Rocco. Well, I'm Mac. How ya doin'?" _What did Harry used to say? A lot depends on where the tough guy stops and the wannabe starts. You belong to this Hunter, but you obeyed those guys too. And I bet you haven't had actual Schutzhund training – I bet you've just had ordinary training._

MacGyver didn't want to think too hard about just how much depended on that bet. If the dog _had_ been formally trained to attack . . .

He sat on the floor and shifted around until he was facing away from Rocco, still talking. "You look pretty tough. Bet they like that in a dog. But you look real well cared for – they're feeding you right and your coat's nice and shiny." That was important: he wasn't dealing with a dog that had been traumatised into vicious or psychotic behaviour.

_The owners, on the other hand ..._

He put one hand out to the side, reaching in the dog's direction, but not too far. After several very long moments, Rocco drew closer, sniffed at Mac carefully, and leaned against him.

Mac ran a slow, easy hand along the dog's back and petted him gently, still keeping up the flow of light, cheerful talk. "Hey, you're a good dog. You're the best. Sit, Rocco!" Rocco sat, and Mac hid the wave of lightheaded relief that washed over him. _Dang. It worked!_ He petted Rocco and praised him again. Finally, Mac rose from the floor, slowly and smoothly. "C'mon, Rocco. Keep an eye on me." He walked over to the desk, Rocco following, and began to examine the papers that littered its scarred wood surface.

- x -

It was some time before MacGyver heard the scrape of returning bootsteps approaching the door. He had moved the chair back so that his shoulders were pressed against the built-in shelves along the near wall, as if Dexter, in his fear and agitation, had backed the chair up until he hit a solid obstacle and couldn't retreat any further. Mac had settled himself back in the chair, replaced the blindfold, and – with deep reluctance – removed and pocketed the wedge he'd used on the lock of the handcuffs, and snapped the cuff closed again on his own wrist. But first he'd made sure the improvised lockpick was in the back pocket of his jeans, where he could reach it if he needed it again.

Near him, Rocco lay peacefully on the floor where he'd settled after Mac had finished casing the room. _Sorry, buddy. It's been nice._ As he heard the bolt click back on the door, MacGyver bumped his shoulder against the hacksaw that he'd carefully placed on the edge of the shelf behind him. The saw knocked into a long-handled screwdriver, which rolled off the shelf and clattered noisily to the floor right next to where Rocco lay. The startled dog bounded to its feet, barking loudly and snarling at the unidentified threat.

When the door was opened, the men who entered saw Rocco barking and growling at the helpless man who cringed in the chair, obviously terrified of the unseen animal.

"Please! Call that thing off! He's gonna kill me! I didn't do anything, honest!"

Mac heard one man laugh with contempt, but the other did not. "Rocco. Down, boy. Git over here." The voice had a Southern drawl to it, and a firm edge. Rocco obeyed.

"Travis, you and Buck take Rocco and y'all keep him quiet. I'll just have a little talk with our guest here. He won't be no trouble at all, I can see that."

Click of the latch as the door closed again; footsteps that crossed the room towards where MacGyver sat. Heavy feet – Hunter must be a big man, without Pete's knack of stepping lightly. A moment's pause, and the blindfold was pulled off, not ungently. Mac winced at the light and blinked myopically up at Hunter.

"So you are Dexter Fillmore, I reckon."

"Yeah . . . who're you?"

"My name's Hunter. Here, let me get those off'n you." He produced the key and unlocked the cuffs. "Sorry you came in for such rough handlin' – I reckon my men might just have been a tad over-enthusiastic." The drawling voice was mild, a soft tone hiding the steel edge; Mac tried to place the accent more precisely. _Arkansas? No, not quite – Mississippi._

"Is that what you call it? You guys are crazy! You kidnapped me!"

"Now, let's not git too riled up."

Mac flexed his fingers and rubbed his wrists, hoping Hunter wouldn't notice – or know – that the bruising was nowhere near what it should have been if he'd actually been handcuffed for that long. "Why'd you bring me here? How'd you know my name?"

"I got cause for a special interest in you, my friend. You and me need to have a talk, but I promise we'll git you home nice and safe afterwards."

'_My friend'? So Hunter's gonna play the good cop now._ "Safe? What about Cody and Jake? Why'd you guys kill Cody?"

"So you're loyal. I admire loyalty. Cody and Jake – their loyalties are . . . just a tad confused. 'Go not after other gods to serve them, and to worship them, and provoke me not to anger with the works of your hands; and I will do you no hurt.' Don't you go worritin' your head about Cody. He's fine. Trust me, he's got nothin' worse than a sore head." Hunter had walked over to the desk; now he returned and held out Dexter's glasses and billfold. MacGyver had found both when he'd searched the desk, but had left them where they were. _Gotta thank Willis for insisting that we put together the billfold with the fake ID._

_Hope I get a chance to._

Mac put the glasses on and blinked at Hunter, then looked around the room as if finally able to see it clearly. He gawked at the fireplace and the flags.

Hunter watched him keenly. "I hear you are a very smart young man. Now why, I ask myself, why is a fine young man like you, from a fine old family like yours must be, mixed up with an outfit like the Phoenix Foundation?" The last two words were almost spat out, the sudden contempt in sharp contrast to the mild tone.

"Uh, it beat going to jail again. They caught me tryin' to hack their systems." Dexter studied his feet. "I made like I was real sorry, and they bought it. I _was_ sorry. I was sorry I got caught." He smirked.

"And did you, in fact, succeed in gittin' into their computers?"

"Well, yeah, but they don't know that." He sniggered. "Those goody-two-shoes think I wanna be a reformed character, and they were all happy to help me out with a job and stuff. They don't hardly pay me nothin', though."

" 'Goody-two-shoes'? So you reckon the folks at the Phoenix Foundation are good? Decent, well-meanin', God-fearin' people?"

"Well, yeah. They do all that stuff with the environment, and education, and poor people and stuff."

"My friend, you have been grossly deceived. That ain't no surprise: our enemies are of the very seed of the Father of Lies. 'Their tongues deviseth mischiefs, like a sharp razor, working deceitfully.' " Hunter's eyes blazed with a fanatical light. "The iniquitous folks at Phoenix are a clandestine arm of the Zionist Occupational Government, and they are hard at work, night and day, destroyin' everything that makes this country great. 'Every one of them is gone back: they are altogether become filthy; there is none that doeth good, no, not one.' "

For once, Dexter's habitual slack-jawed gape was unfaked.

"And I reckon you been told the vile myth that the coloured races are our equals. But you are a very smart young man. Have you ever met a coloured man who was as smart as you are?"

Mac made a face, one of Dexter's arrogant sneers. "I never met _anyone_ who's as smart as me."

"That's it! That's just it. That's how we know that your blood is pure." Hunter rested a fatherly hand on Mac's shoulder. Mac repressed the urge to strike out at the man and knock the hand away; leaving it there felt like agreement. "You don't feel like you fit in at Phoenix, do you? I reckon they treat you like an outsider – don't they?" Mac nodded. "That's because they _know_ that you are superior. They have to work hard to keep you down. 'Mine enemies would daily swallow me up; for they be many that fight against me, O thou most High.' They are _always_ working at keeping us down. Their master plan is our complete racial annihilation."

Mac stared as Hunter paced the room, declaiming.

"The fine state of California is crawlin' with homosexuals, communists, perverts, and members of the lower races. We have been betrayed by the race-mixers; our birthright has been sold to the Jews. 'Every day they wrest my words; all their thoughts are against me for evil. They gather themselves together, they hide themselves, they mark my steps, when they wait for my soul.' Even as we speak here, in Moscow and Tel Aviv they are plotting our destruction. Young man, World War Three has already started; even though the shooting has not yet begun."

_He's sincere. He really believes all that . . . and I thought the alien abduction groupies were nuts._

"But they shall not prevail; our forces are mighty in the sight of the Lord . . . "

It was the opening Mac had been waiting for. "Forces? You mean you guys are with that old lady they busted back in November?"

Hunter hadn't been expecting an interruption; he checked and looked at Dexter with a disapproving frown.

"It was in the papers. That crazy old lady – they made out like she was some kind of Nazi, a _real_ one. The head of some big conspiracy."

Mac had hoped for a reaction – and any break in the deluge of dogma could only be a relief – but he hadn't expected near-apoplexy. Hunter's face went almost purple.

"Don't you – _ever_ – mention that damned bitch to me again!"

Dexter shrank back, yammering, as Hunter stamped over to the chair and leaned into his face, roaring.

"That uppity, unnatural _bitch_ and her iniquitous vanity – 'more bitter than death the woman, whose heart is snares and nets' – she damn near ruint _everythin'_! That treacherous Delilah _betrayed_ us to our enemies! 'Tattlers also and busybodies, speaking things which they ought not.' " Hunter pulled himself together and spoke more quietly, but his eyes were still wild. "But with the will of God, and the wisdom of His holy word, I have seen beyond the treachery. Even as we have been betrayed, so have we been given a mighty weapon with which to confound our enemies." Hunter placed both hands on MacGyver's shoulders and murmured as if sharing a special confidence. "The Lord has spoken to me, my friend. I heard His mighty voice in my ear, saying, 'I shall place in your hand a sword of righteousness, that ye may do My will.' "

The man's voice rose again to a boom. Mac felt battered by the sound as much as by the words. "We will bring terror to the terrorists . . . they will learn that no walls are high enough to hide their evil, no hole deep enough to shield them from His almighty wrath. 'The rock cried out, no hiding place!' God has seen their perfidy. He has chosen the tools of His bloody vengeance, the weapons in His mighty hands."

MacGyver looked at the fanatical light in Hunter's face and felt his skin crawl.

- x -


	10. Seven: Abstract

**Aftershocks**

_**Seven: Abstract**_

- x -

_A lot depends on where the tough guy stops and the wannabe starts. Harry liked to say that._

_I got into real big trouble the first time I came home all banged up from fighting at school – well, it wasn't really at school. It was in the woods on the way to school, when I jumped Andy Pierson, a real mean kid two years ahead of me, after I'd caught him shaking down the younger boys for whatever he could get. He was leaning on this little kid who'd just moved to town . . . chubby little guy named Jack. That's how we first met. I was planning on telling my dad some wild story about falling out of a tree, but Jack told everybody how I'd knocked Andy down and then scared the bejeezus out of him with a rattlesnake rattle I'd rigged up with some fishing line, and by the time I got home, even my mom had heard about what really happened._

_Actually, I didn't get into all that much trouble for fighting, but Dad got __real__ mad at me for trying to lie to him. Since then, it's generally seemed a whole lot easier to stick to the truth whenever possible._

_Once in a while, though, I wish I could get away with some simple lies. The truth gets awful complicated and hard to sort out._

"Pete, there's not much more I can tell you. He went on like that for hours, and it never made any more sense than it did when he started."

"And then they just brought you back and let you go?"

MacGyver looked at Pete with a face made haggard by exhaustion and strain. "You sound like you don't believe me."

For once, it had been Pete pacing around his own office, while Mac sat slumped in a chair, too stupefied by fatigue to move or even fidget. He'd been allowed to make the return trip in the back of the car instead of the trunk, but he'd been handcuffed again and forced to lie down on the back seat, blindfolded, with a blanket thrown over him. The blanket had reeked of mildew and cigarette smoke, and Mac was longing desperately for a shower and clean clothes.

_'Cept no amount of hot water's gonna sluice the muck outta my brain._

"MacGyver, you know I do." The honest compassion in Pete's face made Mac feel less battered – it felt like the first wholesome thing he'd seen since leaving the hospital the day before. "I just can't make out what they were after," Pete mused. "Why'd they snatch you in the first place? And why did they let you go like that?"

"I think they were trying to recruit me. No, scratch that – they were tryin' to recruit _Dexter_. I guess they thought he was the new weak spot in our defenses."

Pete nodded. "I suppose it's better than their going after Rafael Alvarado."

"No kidding. For starters, Dexter's white – as far as they're concerned. Can you believe that makin' such a difference? I played along with 'em – I kept hoping Hunter would spill something more about what they had cookin' – but he never got beyond vague hints and a whole lotta fire and brimstone. He never mentioned money, or the artworks." MacGyver made a face. "Pete, did you know that we're all tools of an international conspiracy to unite the world under a single Satanic government? Or maybe the whole world's already being run by a secret cabal. Hunter was kinda fuzzy on the details."

"Huh. If the whole world's being run by a group of criminal masterminds, you'd think they'd do a better job."

"Oh, it got even better than that." Mac rubbed his eyes. "The Holocaust never happened, Hitler was Jesus Christ, and the Jews caused World War Two."

"_**What**_?"

"I _told_ you it didn't make sense. Like I said, it went on for hours – bad history, bad science, bad theology. Every third sentence was straight outta the Bible. I felt like I oughta be taking notes, like he was gonna test me afterwards. And then he'd stop and pray – at the top of his lungs. You remember when the DXS used to put us through brainwashing simulations? They shoulda just sent us to revival meetings."

Pete grimaced. "I'd rather face the KGB again."

"I guess it's kind of a compliment." Mac slumped back farther in the chair, until his head was resting against the seat back. He studied the unremarkable ceiling. "They musta found Dexter convincing."

"More than convincing. Somebody's taking a very close look indeed. Mac, Willis told me about the fake file you two put together on Dexter – "

MacGyver looked sheepish. "Um, Pete, I can explain about that – "

"That's not the point! Last night, while I was biting my nails after you'd turned up missing, Willis told me someone's been reading that file."

"Somebody hacked our computer system?" Mac sat up again abruptly, professional resentment briefly burning through the fog of exhaustion.

"No. Willis says it was accessed internally."

"What? Oh, no, Pete – it can't be. _No_."

"He seems pretty damned sure. But it just doesn't make sense. Why do they need Dexter, if they've already got someone on the inside who can get into the computer records?"

Mac's face had turned inwards, his dark eyes widening as his mind ran through the implications. "Most of the Phoenix staff only have read privileges, Pete. They can access files, but they can't _change_ anything unless it's theirs. It takes a higher level of computer mojo to change the data – and even more to delete anything."

"What are you getting at?"

"I _think_ Hunter wants me to destroy our copy of Frau Brandenburg's files, including wiping anything we have in the Phoenix computers – in fact, he seems to think we've somehow zapped everything into the computer, and that we're not even talking about boxes of papers any more. But I'm not sure that's all they're after. He acted like he assumed we had a file on _him_. He seemed real proud of the idea – like it meant he was important. At the same time, he didn't like the idea of our having Frau's files. Heck, he didn't like that fact that _she_ had them. Seems she wasn't real popular with the local neo-Nazis."

Pete had been looking out of his office window, where the late morning sunlight was slanting off the distant mountains. He spoke without turning around. "What about Ruth's copy of the files?"

In the long moment of silence that rolled past, MacGyver could hear distant echoes of conversation outside the glass walls of Pete's office, out in the Phoenix Operations Centre. Helen was haranguing someone cheerfully, and ripples of laughter greeted her comments.

Mac found his voice again. "You knew?"

"I guessed – it wasn't all that difficult. I've continued to 'not know' for as long as I could manage it." Pete turned around and met Mac's eyes. "When Henry brought Ruth down here to LA, it got a lot harder to ignore . . . _especially_ when she called Prajna in Legal and asked if one of the staff there could come over to Cedars-Sinai and help her out with an unnamed project." Pete sighed. "As of this conversation, I now know officially, and I'm going to officially tell Ruth to stop it."

Mac winced. "She's not gonna like that."

"I'm not going to enjoy telling her."

Mac was shaking his head, a look of chagrin on his face. "I shoulda known . . . I guess it was pretty dumb tryin' to keep it from you."

Pete shrugged. "What else could you do? And what else could I do? Did Ruth have enough time to make any progress?"

"I don't really know – she said she was sharing her findings with the Anti-Defamation League and the Southern Poverty Law Center. They're way better set up to use the information anyway." Mac looked thoughtful. "I remember now – I met one of the ADL people at the art reception. Zak Abramson. Sharp guy. Did you meet him?"

Pete shook his head. "No, I must have missed him. I did get cornered by some damned woman who writes a gossip column."

Mac straightened up, hunting through the pockets of Dexter's slovenly stadium jacket. "I had a few minutes on my own to look through Hunter's stuff – though there wasn't much there. But we oughta be able to track him down with this, and maybe find out just where that cabin is." Mac handed Pete an envelope, somewhat battered, ripped open across the top and empty.

Pete looked at the envelope and smiled sardonically. "Well, what do you know? Even junk mail comes in handy sometimes. So 'Hunter' is his real name . . . I wonder what the 'W' stands for. That can't be the address of the cabin, but it's a start." He stepped over to the office door, called to Helen, and handed her the envelope with a few words of instruction.

"Did Willis have any luck tracing the pager call?" Mac asked when Pete returned.

Pete sighed. "It was made from a pay phone in San Gabriel. And your callback number went to another one a few blocks away. Whoever they are, they either know what they're doing, or they're extremely paranoid."

"Or both."

"Or both. Anything worth noting on your end?"

"Yeah. When I called back, the voice was muffled, but it was definitely male – and had a German accent."

Pete whistled. "So it wasn't Hunter."

"Nope."

"Do you think it was the 'Professor' those two skinheads talked about?"

"I don't know. But something happened between that call and the meet at the warehouse – I think Cody was supposed to take me to the Professor, but Hunter's men got there first."

Pete frowned. "Are we sure we're only dealing with one group here?"

"Right now, I'm not sure of anything." Mac cupped his chin in his hand, staring into an unfocused distance. "Ruth talked about how decentralised these guys are – they aren't a unified movement at all. There's just a lotta different groups that believe more or less in the same things. They talk to each other, but they aren't really united, not even by hate. Frau musta been nuts to think she had a grand conspiracy going."

"Not completely nuts – although she had the wrong five states."

Mac blinked. "What?"

"That ten-percent business – the idea of a neo-Nazi takeover of five states out of the US, as a new Aryan homeland. It wasn't completely fabricated, just exaggerated. There's been some agitation in the white supremacist groups to do just that, but they never targeted California at all, or Nevada; they want Montana and Wyoming."

"Ummm . . . seems to me the current residents of Montana and Wyoming might have something to say about that."

"No kidding."

"And they shoot back."

Pete gave MacGyver a considering look. "Mac, have you been leaving important details out of your reports again – ?" Pete was interrupted by the chirp of his intercom. "What's up, Helen?"

"It's Willis on line one – you'd left him a message asking him to call when he got in."

"Thanks, Helen. Put him through. Willis, Mac's here. We got him back in one piece earlier this morning."

"Yeah, I know."

Pete raised his eyebrows. "I see the office grapevine's gotten even more efficient."

"It saves time. Mac, there's something very important I need to tell you."

"What?"

"You get kidnapped by murderous psychos one more time, and we're going to stage an intervention. I mean, c'mon. Enough is enough. Can't you take up knitting instead?"

Pete broke in while Mac was trying to come up with an answer. "Willis, I need you to do something for me. Later today – make it right at the end of the day – enter a note into Dexter's personal file. Something to the effect that he was caught attempting unauthorised access to sensitive sections of the computer files, and severely reprimanded."

"Will do." Willis rang off.

"Bait, Pete?" MacGyver asked.

"I'm perfectly happy using Dexter's file as bait. Hell, I like it a lot better than using _Dexter_ in that role. No offense, Mac, but if you ever thought about what I go through when you're out there . . . "

"Okay, okay, I get the message." Mac held up his hands. "And you've got company. Henry Collins wants _me_ to try to keep Ruth out of trouble."

Pete snorted. "I thought he knew her better than that."

Mac's fatigue made his grin ragged. "Well, you can't blame him for tryin'. But I bet he'll be glad to know you're tellin' her to back off." MacGyver's eyes suddenly focused on Pete, who was sorting through a stack of papers on his desk. His casual air suddenly seemed artificial. "_Pete_ . . . "

Pete returned his gaze with a look of superficial ease. "What's up?"

Mac stood up and planted his hands on Pete's desk. "The Brandenburg files. You said there wasn't anything we could do with the information. Legal told you it was nothin' more'n a pack of lawsuits waiting to happen. We had 'no justifiable reason' to go poking around in a mass of 'unsubstantiated data from such a questionable source'. " Mac's eyes narrowed. "Till now. You've had an operative attacked, Foundation security has been compromised, and the files are implicated. You can turn Willis loose on the whole mess and tell him to go crazy." _Heck, he's already got half the work done, I bet._

Pete's expression became even blander, if possible. "What's your point, Mac?"

Mac drew a deep breath to speak, and spluttered instead. He pointed a finger at Pete. "You – _you_ – " The pointing finger became a gesticulating hand. "Dang it, Pete, that was just plain _sneaky_! How far down the road did you see this comin'?"

Pete held up his hands in an exaggerated shrug. "Ruth was meddling! Something was bound to happen. All I had to do was wait, and hope it wouldn't blow up in her face."

Mac was still shaking his head when his eye was caught by one of the papers on Pete's desk – not a memo, a letter, or a report; it almost looked like a page from a comic book, black and white cartoon drawings in bold pen and ink. He picked it up and examined it curiously.

Pete had started to move, to stop MacGyver before he got a good look at the paper; he checked himself as Mac glanced up at him, startled. Mac grinned; he could see how flustered Pete was, the older man's neck flushing red with embarassment. He studied the page carefully.

"Stephanie's work, huh?"

"Yeah." Pete's neck turned a darker red.

"Wait a sec . . . wasn't there some funny comment from the dean of that fancy exclusive private high school she went to up in Oakland? Something about her being into trouble all the time for drawing caricatures of the staff and teachers." Mac held the sheet of paper where the light fell directly on it. " 'The Adventures of Commando Pete,' " he declaimed. "Man, she's really good. She got your 'fierce' expression down perfectly. Is this the only one she's done?"

Pete attempted a long-suffering sigh, but Mac could see he was actually pleased. "That was just the first installment of an ongoing saga. Helen's still tracking down copies of the next two pieces. In Part Three, I understand, I save the rain forest." In spite of himself, Pete's face was twitching as he tried to repress a smirk. "I don't know what I do in Part Two, but I hear that Helen makes an appearance, commanding the Legions of Paperwork. And Frances the File Cabinet is introduced in Part Three."

MacGyver laughed until he thought the tears would come.

- x -

MacGyver left Dexter's clothes in a pile on the floor and climbed into the shower, turning it on full blast. When he'd first moved into the houseboat, the shower hadn't been able to deliver much water pressure, and he'd tinkered with it for months to get it up to something better than an anemic drizzle. Now the work paid off. He turned the hot water up as high as he could stand it and let the spray pound him, drumming on his chest and shoulders, a waterfall of fine hot needles thrumming on his scalp and face. It helped, some.

Mac turned around and let it knock some of the stretched-wire tightness out of his shoulders and back. When at last the water ran cold, he finally shut it off. He made a token attempt to dry himself off before collapsing into a restless sleep – in bed for a change; it felt safer than the couch.

He wandered through a series of confused dreams, returning again and again to a long gallery lined with paintings. Within each frame, flames were licking up the bottom of the pictures, consuming the evidence before he had a chance to study it. The air was dense with smoke. He couldn't find the one he was looking for – the one that didn't fit in. Behind him, Hunter was bellowing apocalyptic Biblical quotations at him.

Mac woke with a start, convinced he heard his smoke detector going off, and realised groggily that the long electronic beep was his answering machine being triggered. He only half-heard Veronica's voice leaving a message – something about checking in with Laura.

_That's it. Laura._

_I still haven't got any answers, but – I think I've finally figured out one of the questions._

- x -


	11. Eight: Surrealism

**Aftershocks**

_**Eight: Surrealism**_

- x -

When MacGyver poked his head in at the Phoenix art lab, he saw no sign of Laura Sandburg. He did see Veronica hovering somewhat anxiously near the main work area. Fully half a dozen of the paintings were out on easels, the most he'd yet seen out of the vault at the same time, arranged in a semicircle around Gordie Thompson, who was gesticulating energetically and talking a blue streak. Rafé was beside him, his face aglow, drinking in every word.

"Caravaggio? Effin' drama queen. Just you look at what 'e's doin' with that light. You'd hate 'is guts if 'e wa'n't so effin' talented. Stupid bugger copped it in a drunken brawl, but first 'e ripped a hole right in the ceiling of the effin' Church of Rome and let in some good honest light." Gordie waved in the general direction of the art vault. "By the time we're done with Oldy-Moldy Bucket-'ed in there, you'll see what Rembrandt did with that same light. Jus' effin' bee-yootiful."

Mac drifted over to where Veronica stood. Her eyes were getting even rounder and her expression was a cascade of incredulity; he had to fight hard to keep his own face straight.

"That Gauguin – 'e was a bounder and a boozer, couldn't stay off the sauce one minute longer than it took 'im to find a new bloke to sponge drinks off'n. But 'e could paint better sodden than most can paint sober. Titian now, 'e's something else again . . ."

"Maybe I shoulda taken art history in college instead of analytical chemistry," Mac murmured. "It sounds a whole lot more interesting than I ever thought. I don't think they taught it quite like this, though."

"You stick your neb right in there and _look_ at them brushstrokes – it'll be an effin' century before you see brushstrokes to match them again."

"That's a pretty safe assumption," Veronica replied. "If they had, I might not have specialised in the Impressionists."

Gordie pointed emphatically at another canvas. " 'ere's Caravaggio again. You think them other saints looked like sanctimonious twits? Well, so did he. Out go the airy-fairy ponces, suddenly you've got them saints lookin' like _real_ blokes, right down to the dirty nails an' the sweaty armpits. 'N course, the Pope thinks it's vulgar, but the rich wankers can't get enough of it. 'e's the first big fad of the effin' seventeenth century, till 'e pisses off the powers-that-be and gets hisself done in."

Veronica shook her head as if dispelling a mirage and turned to Mac. "What are you doing here? Didn't you get my message?"

"I was half asleep when you left it – didn't you want me to come by and talk to Laura?"

"She's not here. She didn't come in today at all. MacGyver, I'm really worried about her. She called in this morning, but she sounded awful. I was hoping you'd go see what's up."

- x -

Mac was puzzled when he reached Laura's place; he'd thought she'd been housed at one of the apartments Phoenix kept for temporary contract consultants. His own living expenses were mostly covered by an open-ended version of the same arrangement. But her new address proved to be a high-rise condo tower with such ostentatiously tight security that he figured it must have been designed and built by a paranoiac.

There were cameras in the garage, the courtyard, and the lobby, and a one-way closed-circuit video system that allowed residents to screen visitors before they were permitted entry. Mac wondered if the lobby door handle was going to take his fingerprints and check them against the LA police files and the FBI records. As he rode up in the elevator, trying to ignore the watchful eye of yet another security camera, he mused on just what results that kind of check might produce.

When she answered the door, he took a really good look at her for the first time in several days, and saw why Ruth and Veronica had been so worried. Laura looked haggard and worn; she wore a limp track suit, and there were dark circles under her eyes. As she let him in, he saw that although she didn't have a lot of personal possessions, what little she had was jumbled around, as if she'd never really settled in. The apartment looked cluttered and untidy. It didn't fit with the image he'd held of her from their first meeting: elegant, composed, confident and self-assured, and able to give better than she got when they had begun to spar over the paintings and the priorities they represented..

But her smile was as warm as ever, and she seemed genuinely pleased to see him. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd be over at Phoenix – " The shadows behind her eyes seemed to darken even further. "I – I was so relieved that you'd turned up safe . . . "

"I just came from the art lab," Mac replied. "I wish you'd been there. Veronica's been worried about you. You okay?"

"What are they up to?"

"Gordie was giving Rafé a lesson in art history." _And you're dodging._

"That must have been – interesting."

"Oh, yeah." Mac saw the shadows lighten on her face, and breathed a bit more easily. He wondered whether to chase after the question she hadn't answered. _Not yet – time enough._

"Addie must have been overjoyed to see you were safe," Laura remarked.

Mac frowned in confusion. "Actually, she wasn't there – I think she and Stephanie were off somewhere together. Why Addie?"

"You really don't know?" Laura shook her head, smiling. "Addie's got a full-blown crush on you."

"_What_?" MacGyver exploded. "Oh, gimme a break! I'm twice her age!"

"You think that matters? It only ups your value as a trophy. She also lusts after Bono, David Bowie, and Kurt Cobain."

"Who?"

"Never mind." Laura began to giggle, and Mac shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, not getting the joke.

"Laura, can I ask you something about the collection?"

She raised an eyebrow, and for a moment the old sardonic look was back. Mac felt a delighted satisfaction seeing the expression. "What's up?" she asked.

"There's something that's been eatin' at me, and I finally put my finger on it. The paintings – they were Frau's private collection, stuff that had been confiscated from Jewish families. Sam Bolinski said she was one of the SS officers' wives who 'went shopping' in the loot. But there's something funny about it. Didn't you tell me something about Hitler's taste in art not bein' that great? Kind of old-fashioned?"

"Well, yes, more or less. Even with all the great treasures of Europe to choose from, his taste was terribly pedestrian. He revered the accepted Old Masters – especially the Renaissance and Baroque artists that he could classify as 'Aryan' – and he particularly hated the Moderns."

Laura had been sitting on the couch, shoulders hunched and arms wrapped around her. Now, distracted by her favourite subject, she uncurled, reaching for a thick book of colour plates that sat on the coffee table, flipping through it as she spoke. "Hitler thought the Impressionists were decadent, and the Post-Impressionists were even worse." She paused at a reproduction of Van Gogh's _Starry Night_, her fingers tracing the burning whorls that filled the sky. "It didn't save them from the looting, though. Goering was only too happy to snatch them up – it was better than their being burned, I guess. I told you about the destruction of the 'morally repugnant' works."

Mac leaned over the back of the couch to look over her shoulder, his face thoughtful. "The painting you just passed – "

Laura flipped to the previous page. "Monet. One of his harbour scenes. I've always loved how he handled water."

"That favourite picture of Stephanie's is one of his, right? Have you got a date for it yet?"

"It's not in his _catalogue raisonée_, but I'm tentatively dating it at 1900."

"And there's that other one you said was supposed to have been destroyed – "

"The Renoir. Circa 1905."

"Yeah. And that's just it. There's a few paintings in our collection – Frau's, I mean – that just don't fit. They're the wrong period. Aren't they?"

"MacGyver, you keep claiming you don't know anything about art. When did you get into art history?"

"This isn't art history! It's basic math." Mac gestured as if trying to pick numbers out of the air. "The dates you keep mentioning – sixteenth, seventeenth, early eighteenth century – and then suddenly it's the twentieth century. That's a _real_ big jump. It's a hundred and fifty years! It doesn't _fit_. And then there's Addy's pet picture, the one that was supposed to have been lost when Berlin was bombed towards the end of the war."

"The Flakturm Rembrandt, yes. It's a late Rembrandt; circa 1650. Dieter's still waiting to hear back from the current director of the Kaiser Friedrich Museum. Mac, what are you getting at?"

Mac sat down on the couch beside her, shaking his head. "I don't know. I just know there's something – but I can't put my finger on it. How did Frau get hold of those three pictures, when they're so far outta line with the rest?"

The shadow crossed Laura's face again, a cloud dimming the sun. Mac looked at her with concern. "I'm sorry. This is all really hard on you, isn't it?"

Laura tried to laugh, but it was a brittle failure. "Is it that obvious?"

"Well, yeah."

Laura pushed the book of colour plates away. "I wish I'd taken that job in New York – only I don't, really. I'll never have another chance like this again. But it's hard – "

"Pete and Ruth leaned on you pretty hard to stay."

"Oh, they make a great team. Pete talks you into a corner, and Ruth makes sure there's a comfortable chair and a nice view. You're stuck. And then you have to live with it."

Laura's eyes grew distant. "Sometimes, I look at the paintings and they're everything art has always been to me – the very pinnacle of human hopes and vision, the breath of history caught on canvas so that the generations to come can understand that we're not alone. And on other days, I look at them and all I can see is Frau Brandenburg's face, sneering at me as if I was some kind of disgusting animal. I hear her voice, calling me a 'Jewess'." She picked up one of the sofa cushions and wrapped her arms around it. "Maybe for you, having someone hate you enough to want to kill you is all in a day's work. Maybe it's something you get used to. Not me."

"It isn't, you know," Mac replied softly. "Something you get used to. You shouldn't."

Laura hugged the pillow to herself tightly, looking blankly out at nothing at all. "Veronica and I went out to an Italian restaurant . . . well, we tried to. I tried. The smell of the garlic hit me and I went into a full-blown panic attack. I was so humiliated. And all poor Veronica could do was haul me into a taxi and get me home."

She closed her eyes with a look of pain. "From the moment that man pulled the gun on me – I'd never even _seen_ a real gun before, can you believe it?"

"It didn't seem real?" Mac asked gently.

"I wish. No . . . there was never a moment when it didn't feel horribly real. Since then, sometimes it feels as if nothing else is real, or ever has been." Laura pushed the pillow away and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. "I can't stand it. It's horrible. How can you live like this? Every morning I look into the mirror to see if I'm still there." The tears were now sliding freely down her cheeks. "I tried talking to my therapist about it, but I couldn't say anything. I just sat there and cried. I haven't been back since." She looked around the apartment as if seeing the mess for the first time. "I haven't really been anywhere since."

Mac reached out a hand to her. "Laura, there's a lotta hate in the world, but most of it isn't personal. You don't have to listen to it, any more than you have to pay attention to city sounds, or to someone's awful music on the radio in the car next to you."

She turned to him, her face suddenly fierce. "Mac, stop right there. I know you're trying to help – but _please_, don't try to come up with something to say that'll fix it. You _can't_. Give me some credit." She drew a deep breath. "Just – tell me how _you_ live with it."

"Well, um . . . like I said, you – I – can't take it personally. I guess I was still pretty young when I found out there were people who didn't even know me who were still willing to kill me for one reason or another. I guess I figure that's their problem, not mine." He threw up his hands. "Honestly, most of the time, I just don't think about it at all. I guess I'm not real good at looking backwards."

"Improvising, huh?"

"Well, yeah. If something works, I don't like to spend a lot of time afterwards thinking about what I might have done differently. Whatever it was, I did it. I don't usually have a lot of time, anyway." He shrugged and made a face. "I used to be way cockier."

"What happened?"

"I got lucky too many times."

MacGyver glanced at Laura as he spoke, and, incredibly, saw her face twitch with the ghost of a smile. He suddenly heard what he'd said, and flushed scarlet. "Um, bad choice of words there . . . " Mac looked around desperately, trying to think of something else to say, something to change the subject.

Laura suddenly found herself giggling; in a moment, she was laughing, although the laughter had an hysterical edge to it. She buried her face in her hands and rocked back and forth as the dam broke and the laughter turned into savage tears.

She tried to stop the torrent, to choke back the sobs, but she felt Mac's arms go around her and pull her close. She leaned into the sanctuary and let go for the first time in what felt like years.

MacGyver held Laura as she cried, rocking her gently and stroking her hair until the storm began to pass. He tried not to be too aware of the feeling of her body in his arms – the warm scent of her skin and the softness of her hair between his fingers. In spite of his best efforts, his own body responded strongly, and he tried to shift his position surreptitiously so it wouldn't be so noticeable.

The worst of Laura's weeping had ebbed, and she felt him shift. He heard her breath catch and felt her shoulders tighten, and knew he was busted.

_That's the problem with liking really smart women. They're way too hard to fool._

Mac murmured softly into Laura's ear. "Do you want me to leave?"

Her fingers tightened on his shirt, where the bright blue cloth was mottled with damp patches from her tears. "No. Please. Stay – if you want to . . . "

"Want to?" Mac breathed. He cupped her face in his hands, moved his mouth to hers and kissed her.

- x -

MacGyver was in a good mood when he headed for the hospital the next morning, even though he expected Ruth to be in a difficult frame of mind – _okay, just plain cranky _– following Pete's expected talk with her about the Brandenburg files. A peace offering seemed like a good idea: Mac was certain Henry Collins would still have the flower angle covered, but he remembered Ruth had a weakness for sweets, and stopped on the way to Cedars-Sinai to pick up an oversized box of chocolates.

"Whaddya mean she's not here?" Mac's good mood imploded in an instant, leaving a coppery taste of sick dread in his mouth. Rawlings, the security guard, looked miserable and shrugged helplessly.

"She was ambulatory, and had access to her purse and street clothes – she must have left on her own, but I can't figure out why! We only noticed she was missing about twenty minutes ago, when Annie – the nurse here – came back to see if she was feeling any better."

"She'd had a rough night and was in a good deal of pain," Annie interjected. "I finally got her to let me give her something for it; she should have been resting peacefully. The last thing I expected was that she'd start wandering!"

"Whoa," Mac said. "She got dosed with painkillers? I thought she didn't like them."

The nurse gave him a long-suffering look. "She didn't. She hated them – said they made her woozy. When she did have to take anything, I always checked back within half an hour to make sure she was all right."

Mac shook his head. "It doesn't make sense." He was hurrying along the corridor towards Ruth's empty room, Annie and Rawlings trying to keep up with him.

Rawlings gestured towards the exit door at the end of the corridor. "We think she may have gotten out that way."

"Didn't you have a second guard stationed out there?"

"Not any more. The door can't be opened from the outside without a passkey, and it was decided that keeping a guard there was too conspicuous – it would draw attention."

"How hard would it be to get hold of a passkey?"

"The director assured me that they were scrupulously careful with issuing and tracking them – "

"Bull," snapped Annie. "Crap, Bertie, you should've asked someone on the staff about that! There are more passkeys for that door floating around than _anyone_ can keep track of. The staff uses that side door for cigarette breaks all the time, since they can't smoke inside."

"I never saw anyone – " Rawlings began.

"They didn't use the door when it was guarded! The usual joke is that they're called 'passkeys' because they're always being passed around!"

"Aw, _great_," Mac muttered. "Schrödinger's cat has its own cat door." The sick feeling in his mouth had settled down into his stomach. When he looked around the hospital room, bright with sunshine and glowing with colour from the latest wave of fresh flowers, its very neatness seemed a threat, as if Ruth had been tidied out of the way, all signs of her presence erased. Mac looked at the bed and frowned.

"If she was in bed when you last saw her – why's the bed made up?"

Annie looked from Mac to the hospital bed. "You call that made? Any nurse on my shift who tried to make a bed that way would get a fast lesson in how it's supposed to be done. Somebody just pulled the covers back up is all."

"Did they," Mac muttered. He hurried over to the bed, looked around it carefully, and then turned the bedclothes down, revealing a folded slip of notepaper.

"Rawlings, have you called the cops yet?"

"Not yet . . . I wasn't certain . . . "

"Do it. _Now_. And then call Pete."

Mac grabbed a Kleenex from the box beside the bed and swathed his fingers before he carefully lifted the note and unfolded it. His stomach twisted and he tasted bile as he read the brief scrawl on the paper.

_Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord._

- x -


	12. gesture study 4

_**gesture study**_

The '46 Chevy truck had been built to hold up against the demands of farm work in a less mechanised era – it could handle rough terrain without breaking a sweat, and out here in the back country it trundled easily over jutting rocks, washouts and rip-rap that would have torn the guts out of most cars. As the road grew steeper and more winding, MacGyver downshifted and felt the truck's willing response to the demands, although the manual steering was a challenge on some of the curves.

The truck wasn't really Mac's – it had originally belonged to his grandfather, but Harry had been on the verge of junking it. Salvation had come from Mac's longtime colleague and friend Bill Foy, who had spent more than two years patiently and painstakingly restoring it, MacGyver helping when he could. They had just finished the monumental project when Bill had been offered a plum overseas posting, deputy ops director for Phoenix' entire European division. He'd insisted that Mac keep the truck, and keep it on the road, till he returned.

_'After all that work? I'm not leaving her in some damned garage to get rusty and dusty again! And you just wait, hotshot. We've got all the Alps to play in, and Emily's gonna whip my ass into shape again. I'll be recertified for field ops before you know it.'_

Mac loved the truck, but it was an attention magnet. The unusual colour and high profile stood out in any group of vehicles, and even more so in isolation. _I shoulda gone back home for the Jeep_. He'd been too impatient even to think about it.

And there was no doubt now: the shortened horizon of the winding road made it much easier to be sure.

He was being followed.

* * *


	13. Nine: Deconstructionist

**Aftershocks**

**Nine: Deconstructionist**

- x -

_'We have been given a mighty weapon with which to confound our enemies . . . I shall place in your hand a sword of righteousness, that ye may do My will. We will bring terror to the terrorists . . . God has chosen the tools of His bloody vengeance, the weapons in His mighty hands.'_

_I told Laura that hatred shouldn't be taken personally._

_I lied._

_Nothing's more personal._

"It's _got_ to be Hunter, Pete! It's his style!"

"But why leave a note at all?"

"He's gloatin', Pete! He wants to scare us. He wants to make us squirm. It makes him feel big."

"How the hell did he even know about her? How did he know where she was?" Pete held up a hand. "Don't answer that, Mac. You've already given me an earful on that subject."

"Fine. I won't."

"But why did they go after Ruth? If it's revenge, revenge for _what_?"

"I don't know, Pete. I don't even know if we're looking at a whole bunch of different puzzles, or different pieces of the same puzzle." MacGyver ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head as if he though he might dislodge an answer that way. "Any progress on the possible leak here at Phoenix?"

"Willis is working on it. He said he had an idea – I didn't ask him the details, I just told him to go ahead. I don't know if anyone's tried to check the fake file on Dexter since we amended it."

"And no calls on the pager, either."

"Not yet."

"Hunter's got her, Pete, I'm sure of it – and I'm betting he'll take her up to the cabin, where they took me." Mac had been pacing the office like a caged tiger; now he turned to Pete. "That envelope I brought back – did you have any luck tracing him?"

"Well, yes . . . we hit the jackpot, in fact." Somewhat reluctantly, Pete picked up a folder that lay on his desk and flipped through it. "The address checked out for a Winston Lamont Hunter, aged 62. Divorced; his ex-wife's back in Mississippi, and had nothing to say to anyone, except that she hasn't seen her husband in years, not since he moved out to LA to be near his son."

"Where does he live?" MacGyver halted his pacing and stared out the window.

"San Fernando. His son lives nearby, also divorced – and there's a grandson: Jake Hunter."

Mac's eyes gleamed. "Jake!"

"Has to be. He's got a good long rap sheet, in spite of only being 20 – mostly mild stuff: vandalism, petty theft, truancy, trespassing." Pete turned a page. "He had a record as a bully in school, and since graduation he's been implicated in some ugly incidents of harassment and intimidation."

"What about Cody? Did we get any prints off that pager?"

"Nice clean set, but we haven't made any progress in identifying him – he doesn't seem to have any priors. He may have a knack for letting Jake take the rap." Pete cleared his throat. "As for Hunter: a further check of property records revealed that he also owns a few acres of land up in the San Gabriel Mountains. _And_ there's a small cabin out there. Access is by Forest Service roads; it sounds like the right place."

"That's it. Have you got the location mapped yet?"

"Well, yes, but – Mac, wait just a moment before you go off half-cocked. What if you head off into the mountains, and we get a ransom demand while you're out there?"

"I'm bettin' you won't. They aren't interested in ransom." MacGyver took the folder from Pete and flipped through it. "What could they ask for? Hitler's brain in a jar? California on a silver platter? Come _on_, Pete."

"Okay, you've got a point. But hang on, all right? We've got more – " Pete went to his computer with the air of a magician about to produce a particularly fine rabbit from an unexpected hat. "Hunter was in Frau Brandenburg's files."

Mac looked up from the folder, his eyes gleaming. Pete grinned, pecked on the keyboard, and pointed to the screen as it filled with data. "Associated with the Identity Church, Posse Comitatus and the White Aryan Resistance – his son isn't listed, but the grandson is, along with several other _Anhänger_ – "

"Followers," Mac translated. "What are those codes next to the names – 'AFW' and 'NKG'?"

"Frau Brandenburg's personal evaluation system. She had two numerical scales for ranking everyone: '_Aufopferungswille_' – which seems to be a rating of how well she could count on their loyalty and dedication to the cause – and _'Nützlichkeitsgröße'_, which seems to be a ranking of how potentially important each individual was. _Nützlichkeitsgröße _apparently included social status, access to power or influence, etc."

"Huh," Mac peered at the screen. "The scale's from 0 to 100, right? I wonder if Hunter knew just how low she ranked him. Did she have anything else on him?"

"Take a look." Pete opened another screen of data.

MacGyver snorted. "Pity Hunter can't see this – I'd give a lot to see his face. '_typischer Amerikaner: ungebildeter, undisziplinierter, selbstgerechter Blödmann, leicht zu kontrollierender' _– Pete, am I translatin' this right . . . ?"

" 'A typical American: uneducated, undisciplined, self-righteous fool, easily controlled'. It sounds like she'd actually met him. Most of her assessments aren't what you'd call flattering."

"No kidding. It looks like you've got some more associates cross-referenced."

"Yeah. Here's 'Travis' – Travis Henderson, also Identity Church, with ties to Butler and the Aryan Nations. No sign of 'Buck', if that's his real name. But here's an interesting item – "

Mac studied the new entry. " 'Rolf Schmidt' –_ 'völkisch_, _Flüchtling'_ – 'fugitive' – another ex-Nazi?"

"Could be. She ranked him pretty high for 'loyalty'. Here's the interesting part: he originally had a very low ranking for 'usefulness', but it was amended at some time to a much higher score."

"Have you started to trace him yet?"

"I'll have to ask Willis to work on that also. You can see that this entry didn't include an address . . . but I think we should start by looking in and around San Gabriel. We could be on the track of your 'Professor'."

"Wait just a darned minute, Pete – " MacGyver leaned over the desk, but he wasn't looking at the computer screen any more; his dark eyes bored into Pete's. "I _know_ just how many boxes of these files we recovered – and here you've got it all nicely entered in the computer, _and_ translated, _and _cross-referenced and indexed and everything, with the comments and coding methods analysed – " Mac aimed an accusing finger at Pete. "That kinda work takes _weeks_. This isn't Ruth's doing; she was working off hard copies, and she's never pretended to be computer-savvy."

Pete attempted to look innocent, although he knew it was pointless. "MacGyver, you know how efficient our data entry team is – they're the best."

"Well, yeah, Willis won't stand for anything less! Neither will you. But don't try to wiggle outta this. You musta had the computer team working on transcription and analysis from Day One – even _before _the Legal guys started chewing on it, and long before they spat it out."

Pete shrugged. "Simple data entry, Mac . . . cataloguing evidence. Standard procedure. No legal issues in that."

"And the analysis?"

"Ruth isn't the only one with contacts. I called in a favour." Pete raised an eyebrow. "Next time, will you have a little more faith in me?"

Mac was shaking his head, a look of chagrin on his face. He waved a hand. "You bet, Pete . . . tell ya what. Next time, I'll just hang out with Frances the File Cabinet till you need me, okay?"

Pete smiled and started to answer. He was interrupted when the office door was flung open; Willis burst in at a half-run, his hands full of computer printouts.

"Pete, can you get hold of Mac – ? Oh, you're here! Thank god. I just turned up something."

"What's up? Somebody got at Dexter's file?"

"What? Oh, that – no, there hasn't been any sniffing around that piece of cheese since I put it out. But I went back to the couple of weeks before the interns started getting hassled, and started digging." Willis turned to Pete. "You know how we kept the access to the Brandenburg files under really tight restrictions? You didn't want anyone poking around in there, except for the legal team when they did their assessment."

"Somebody read them?"

Willis' voice was harsh. "Someone tried to _alter_ them."

"What?" Pete looked like a thundercloud. "_Who_? Who was it?"

"I don't know!" Willis had dropped his pile of printouts onto Pete's desk, and started rooting through them. "I haven't been able to find that out yet. I think it's the same person who accessed Dexter's file – there's the same feel to what he's doing. Him or her. Them. They're good enough to hide their tracks, but not good enough to eliminate them."

Mac broke in. "Lemme guess, Willis – they were tryin' to _delete_ names, right?"

Willis looked up, startled. "How'd you know?"

"Was one of the names Winston Hunter?"

"Yeah, it was."

Mac felt icy prickles run up the back of his neck. "Anyone else?"

"Just one other name – someone named Rolf Schmidt."

Mac exchanged a glance with Pete. "Aw, _man_."

Pete rubbed his eyes. "Willis, I need you to keep on top of the hunt for Ruth. But I want you to pick the best person you've got, tell 'em to drop everything else and start looking for this Schmidt. I want him. Yesterday. They can start with German-speaking immigrants old enough to have been involved in World War II, and go on from there. Mac – Mac, where are you going?"

Mac had picked up his leather jacket from where he'd dumped it on a chair, and was shrugging into it. "I already told you, Pete. Hunter's cabin."

"What about Schmidt?"

"How long is it gonna take to track him down? Too long, I'm betting."

"_Mac_ – "

"If you do get anything, you can call me on the car phone."

"Mobile phone coverage gets pretty hit-and-miss out there." Pete knew he was grasping at straws.

"Leave a message."

Pete sighed and threw up his hands. "All right, _fine_. Just don't – "

" – do anything stupid?"

"Just be careful."

"Fine. Don't worry. Where's the map and directions?"

"Helen's got it all at her desk – it's waiting for you." Pete's voice was brusque.

Mac wasn't fooled. He paused on his way out the door to meet Pete's eyes. "Thanks. I mean it."

Helen handed him a manila folder with a computer printout of detailed directions, several pages from the relevant Thomas Guides, and the USGS quad maps for the area. The cabin was marked in ink, and several of the Forest Service roads were highlighted. Mac raised his eyebrows in appreciation.

"Wow. Good job."

"I'll let them know in Mapping," Helen replied. Her voice was clipped and her face was a mask of impassivity.

Mac leaned over the desk to squeeze her shoulder. "Thank them for me, awright?"

"MacGyver – "

Mac held up a hand. "Helen, do me a favour? Don't tell me to be careful, okay?"

Helen sniffed. "MacGyver, I've known you for years. I wasn't going to do anything of the sort."

"Okay. Then don't tell me not to do anything stupid. How's that?"

Helen's mask went ragged. "I wasn't going to do that, either. Mac, please – "

"What?"

"Just – _get her back_. Please?"

- x -

It had been a damp winter, and patches of snow still lay under the trees on the eastern faces of the slopes. The secondary road had given way to Forest Service roads, which had turned into washboard twice already where spring runoff had shredded the road surface. Mac had reached the altitude where the ponderosa pine took over from the lowland scrub, and you could chart the rain shadows from each peak by looking at the patchwork shades of brown and green on the hills.

The trees had begun to loom like brooding sentinels, scattered ranks set apart from each other by the fierce competition for water. At this height, the highland forest seemed to have triumphed over the desert conditions farther down – but every drop of water was a prize, and the victory of each towering tree was revealed in the lack of undergrowth around it. Only in the gullies and ravines did the brush grow dense and tangled, and the thickets greeted careless passers-by with barbed thorns. On the sunnier western slopes, you could find cactus growing amongst the juniper and scrub oak.

As MacGyver threaded his way through the maze of winding gravel and dirt roads, he felt himself slipping into the mentality of the patient, intractable trees and enduring stones and rock. This forest was very different from the deep woods of northern Minnesota or the rain forests of the Pacific Northwest – dry and sparse, with less cover and a tougher hide – but it was still his turf. He understood the country in his bones, and anyone who thought they could hide from him up here had underestimated him – badly.

And whoever had decided to follow him up here was also in over his head . . . he just didn't know it yet.

- x -

The pursuer came around yet another bend in the endlessly twisting mountain road and hit his brakes with a screech. The yellow truck that he had been following had come to a sudden and violent stop, and now sat skewed at an awkward angle to the road, its cab halfway up the low embankment on the right-hand side. Deep skid marks left in the gravel by the tires showed where the sudden braking had occurred, although there was no sign of whatever had instigated the emergency response. _Probably some damned animal or other – whatever it was must have run off in terror._

The driver's door had swung open, and the still form of the driver lay sprawled beside the truck, face down.

_Oh, God. Can't see any blood . . . but . . ._

The pursuer bailed out from the front seat almost before his car had come to a full stop. He ran to where MacGyver lay, bending down to check for a pulse.

He found the heartbeat quickly enough, and the reassuring drumbeat of life was strong under his fingertips. The sudden iron grip of fingers locking onto his wrist was even stronger. MacGyver flipped himself over and caught the other man's arm in a hold that would have had plenty of leverage even without the furious roar of adrenaline behind it. Caught off guard, the man went tumbling down the embankment like a limp dishrag.

Mac was on him like a leopard even as he fell. The speed was necessary: by the time his opponent had reached the edge of the muddy ditch that bordered the road, he had pulled himself from an awkward tumble into a graceful, practiced roll. He was beginning to rise to his feet at the end of the fall when MacGyver tackled him full-on, bowling him over onto his back with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Mac pinned him to the ground and cocked his fist back, ready to follow through, but the man lay passively still underneath him.

"_Zak_!"

Zak Abramson met Mac's look with a sardonic expression, in spite of the fist aimed at his eyes. "Well, at least you're not damaged after all, God be praised."

"What the – " Mac spluttered.

"What the hell am I doing out here? At the moment, getting a lot of mud on a perfectly good coat, and reminding myself not to underestimate American operatives."

Mac finally placed the faint accent. "You're a _katsa_."

The Mossad operative inclined his head in accordance. "Isaac ben Abraham. But 'Zak' does as well as anything."

"Okay, so – "

" – so what the hell am I doing following you?"

Mac had lowered his fist, but now he raised it again. There was a ghost of a smile on his face, but his eyes were earnest. "If you're gonna ask all the questions for me, the least you can do is answer a few."

Zak grinned nonchalantly. "Personally, I would rather have been working together long since. But my superiors would not authorise my breaking cover. So, you have broken it for me."

"You mean you _let _me know you were followin' me . . . ?"

"You didn't notice me the last time, did you? Or the time before that?"

Mac threw up his hands. "How many were there?"

"Only three so far. I haven't been in Los Angeles long. I only came down from the Bay Area a few days ago, when Mr. Collins brought Ruth here."

Mac's eyes narrowed. "So she was passing information to you guys, not to the Anti-Defamation League?"

"Oh, the ADL people think I'm one of them. They've been getting all Ruth's reports. They're more likely to do anything with them than we are, I fear."

"Mossad doesn't care about neo-Nazis?"

Zak shrugged. "Your problem, really. Not ours. They're not any current threat to the state of Israel, you see. My superiors are very single-minded."

"How about real Nazis? World War II escapees?"

"We let Mengele die of old age." Zak's voice was dry. "We should lose much sleep over art thieves?"

Mac's lips narrowed. "So just when _did_ you tail me?"

"Don't feel too bad. You nearly had me twice. And trust me, my friend, I am _very_ good at this."

"Well, you guys do have a reputation."

"We've worked hard enough for it." Zak shifted slightly. "I don't suppose you'd consider letting me get up, so we can get on with this?"

"Get on with what?"

"Rescuing Mrs. Collins, of course. What else should we be doing?"

Mac eyed him as he stood up. "You know where she is?"

"Hell, no." Zak made a half-hearted attempt to brush the mud off his coat. "All I know is that you do."

"But I don't," Mac said. "Not for certain. I'm followin' a hunch."

"Good enough for me." Zak grinned again. "You have a reputation as well."

- x -

The third time Zak stepped on a dry twig, Mac didn't try to hide his annoyance. "I thought you said you were good at this."

"I am! But I don't have much call to skulk around in the woods."

"You mostly skulk around in cities?"

"Exactly so."

They could just glimpse the cabin now through the trees, and MacGyver waved Zak to hunker down. He himself pulled out a set of field glasses and surveyed the small building and the clearing around it. He could smell the tang of wood smoke; there was a sharp breeze blowing, and the haze in the sky threatened brisker weather and more wind later on.

Beside him, Zak produced a set of miniaturised binoculars and peered through them. "Three vehicles – hard to guess how many men inside. What have they got against windows?"

"I'm pretty sure Hunter's a survivalist," Mac answered absently. "This far up in the mountains, windows are a luxury if you plan on wintering in. And he plans on making it through the fall of civilisation." Mac lowered the glasses. Zak followed him, more successfully, as they slipped through the trees to where they could examine the cabin from another angle.

"You're kidding, right? Surely he doesn't think he's self-sufficient up here?"

"He probably does. He's off the grid – got a nice big woodpile. He's got a generator for light, and I bet he's got propane for heating water, but he'd be able to go without."

Zak snorted. "That's ridiculous. Look at that place. Never mind the conveniences he doesn't really have to have – what about everything else that he _does_ need? There's nowhere to put in a crop, and not even enough pasture for a single mangy goat."

Mac looked at him with some surprise.

"I may be a city boy, but I'm not stupid. I can never figure out why your survivalists overlook the simplest things. Or why they're all such damned loners. Don't they realise they'd be better off in groups?"

Mac grinned and shrugged. "Well, he's only waitin' for Armageddon to be over – he probably figures he'll be lifted bodily to Heaven before malnutrition has a chance to set in." He settled in to the new vantage and studied the cabin again.

"I don't imagine the Rapture's going to tidy them all away right now just for our convenience. So what's our plan?" Zak murmured.

"Well, that depends."

"On what?"

"A whole lotta things." MacGyver studied what he could see of the building, trying to guess at the arrangement of rooms inside. "How many people are there, what kinda shape she's in, where they've got her, the layout of the cabin . . . that one little window there must be in the kitchen – see the stovepipe on that side? Can't see any movement there, though . . ."

"I thought you said you'd been up here."

"I was, but I was blindfolded most of the time and I only saw the inside of one room. I figured I'd get up here and see what I had to work with." MacGyver turned his attention to the trees and undergrowth on the far side of the cabin. The ground began to fall away there, becoming rough and broken; a line of darker foliage marked where a watercourse might be – although, in this part of the mountains, it would be dry most of the year.

"You don't _have_ a plan, do you?" Zak demanded accusingly. "You came up here with no plan at all!"

Mac shrugged. "If I'd made a plan without scoping out the situation first, I'd've just had to change it once I got here."

Zak stared at him. "You mean that part of your reputation's true?"

"Which part? The part about improvising a lot?"

"The part about you being crazy."

Zak was still shaking his head in bemusement as they returned to where they'd hidden Mac's truck and his own car. He watched as MacGyver produced a glasses case from the glove compartment. "Doesn't anyone ever notice that those aren't real corrective lenses?"

"Most folks aren't that observant. But they _are _prescription. There's a minor correction for hyperpheria – just enough to distort the eyes a bit – and the lenses have an anti-glare coating, so when people look at them they can see it's not plain glass." He couldn't find a hair elastic in the glove compartment, but he spotted a twist-tie on the floor of the cab and fastened his hair back with that. The stadium jacket was still in a heap on the floor back at home – all he had was his brown bomber jacket: old and scruffy, well-worn and much-loved. He left it unzipped and rumpled the shirt underneath, leaving it half-untucked. It would have to do.

Zak studied him quizzically. Mac gave him a long look.

"About that reputation of mine – anything there about my personal quirks?"

"My colleague Moshe ben Aaron has a particularly wild story from a certain encounter in Baalbek – he dined out on it for months." Zak smiled enigmatically. "Admittedly, Moshe has a very fine style as a raconteur. He calls the tale '101 Uses For a Dead Uzi'." He met MacGyver's eyes unflinchingly. "Relax, my friend. Yes, Moshe says you're most adamant: no guns, no killing. It's a bad idea in friendly territory, anyway. Not part of my plan."

Mac grinned. "You got a plan?"

Zak smirked. "You're known for using whatever's at hand, right? Well, I figure your plan's the nearest thing to hand. So I'll use that. Why not?"

- x -

_I've been accused of running away from stuff – problems, conflicts, commitments . . . especially commitment . . . although I've spent my whole life, pretty much, doing the same kind of work, working for the same kind of ideals. If that isn't commitment, what is?_

_And when there's a real need, or a real problem – or a real danger – well, I don't run away from that. I don't run after it, either._

_I run __at__ it._

_Like Harry said, a lot depends on where the tough guy stops and the wannabe starts. _

The cabin had a single door, opening on to a hallway; MacGyver was stepping softly, but he still remembered the feel of the floor beneath his feet from his previous visit, and the smells of the cabin. Hunter's housekeeping was never going to win any prizes.

Mac hadn't been taken far down the hall that night before being pushed through the doorway into Hunter's inner sanctum – on the left; there was the door, the first in the hallway. Another door, farther down on the right, must be the entrance to the kitchen – the stovepipe had been on that side, balancing the fireplace chimney that marked Hunter's study.

A murmur of voices seeped through the door on the left. MacGyver pulled out his Swiss Army knife and bent his head to listen as he worked, careful to make no noise.

"Geez, Don, what the hell did you give her? She's still out." Mac recognised the voice: it was Travis, the man who had pinned him down with the flashlight to his eyes and then set Rocco to watch him, shrugging off the possibility of attack, amused at the sight of a grown man terrified of a dog.

"Bull." Don's answering voice was a slow Carolina drawl. "She been awake fer a while now."

The next voice, high-pitched and hard-edged, was Jake's. "You mean she's fakin' it? How come you didn't say nothin'? C'mon, Grandma, we're onto you."

_Here goes. Let's see now . . . Dexter's pretty clumsy . . . _There was a paper grocery bag half-full of empty cans sitting on the floor, next to another bag of empty beer bottles. Mac bumped it with his foot, and the bag toppled and scattered its contents with a loud jangling crash. He could hear startled yells and obscenities on the other side of the door.

He set his hand on the doorknob, and when he felt movement on the other side, he turned the knob and pulled the door open. The man on the other side of the door, a heavyset, balding man in a hunting vest, staggered and swore, thrown off balance.

Dexter also staggered, obviously caught off guard, and stumbled into the room. There had been no barking at the sudden racket, and there was no sign of Rocco now, to Mac's relief. He gaped at the group of men – Hunter looking thunderstruck, Jake bewildered, three other men in rough backwoods clothing and varying states of befuddlement – and brayed with nervous laughter. "Hey, you guys. What's going on? I've been waiting for you to call me for, like, _ages_."

The room was as he remembered it, except for the Army cot next to the fireplace, where Ruth was now sitting up. She looked ghastly in the harsh light of the single electric bulb, the bruises on her face showing as dark mottled patches, but Mac didn't see any signs of additional damage. He had wondered whether Ruth would blow his cover as Dexter – although for once, it didn't matter much if the cover was blown or not.

As the men stared in confusion, Ruth drew herself to her feet and marched unsteadily but imperiously over to where MacGyver stood. Mac often forgot just how small she was; even with Dexter's slouch, he still towered over her. She glared up at him fiercely, stood on tiptoes and delivered a ringing slap to his face.

"Dexter Fillmore, you miserable little _worm_ . . . " she stormed. "You're involved with these cretins? After everything we've done for you?"

The slap hadn't actually been very hard; Ruth had cupped her hand as she struck him, and Mac had rolled his head in time. But the sound had been convincingly loud in the small room. Dexter cringed from the blow and began to whine.

"More gambling, right? Horses again? How deep a hole did you dig yourself this time?" Ruth demanded.

Dexter sniveled. "Deep enough to get buried in."

"I swear, I am _never_ giving anyone a second chance _ever_ again!"

The men in the room had been temporarily immobilised with sheer astonishment. Now Travis roused himself and seized Ruth by the shoulders before she could go after Dexter again. "You got that right, lady."

Hunter recovered from his own bewilderment. "_Dexter_!" he roared. "What the _hell_ are you doin' heah?"

"Well, geez, I've been waitin' for you guys to let me know what you wanted me to do! You said a whole buncha stuff, the Professor says something else – and then it's a whole day and I don't hear from you! And they caught me messing around on the computers at Phoenix and now I'm in trouble again and it's _all your fault_!" Dexter's voice rose to a pathetic wail.

"How the _hell_ did you find this place?"

Dexter gawked at Hunter. "Aw, c'mon. You _knew_ they had a file on you, didn'cha? All I had to do was hack into it. Geez."

"God _damn_ it – "

"Mr. Hunter." Ruth's voice was crisp enough to cut glass. "I was under the impression that Southern gentlemen still had enough breeding to mind their language in the presence of a lady." She sniffed. "Not that I was under any illusions, given your behaviour thus far."

Now it was Hunter's turn to gawk. Mac was mentally counting down. _Okay, Zak . . . _

A fresh set of footsteps could be heard in the entryway. MacGyver frowned. Zak wasn't supposed to march in; that was Mac's role. In a moment, the door was flung open – but the newcomer wasn't Zak.

Ryan Smith, from the Phoenix Legal department, stared at the crowd in the room, his eyes wide. "_MacGyver_? Hunter, what the hell is MacGyver doing here?"

- x -


	14. Ten: Primitivism

**Aftershocks**

_**Ten: Primitivism**_

- x -

Pete's voice rang in MacGyver's memory. _Mac, I ran it past Legal . . ._

_That second name – Rolf Schmidt – Frau B. had upped his 'usefulness' score a while back . . . 'How long have you been at Phoenix anyway?' 'About ten months.'_

Hunter was staring from Ryan to MacGyver and back again. "What the hell you talkin' about, boy?" he roared. "That's Dexter, from the Phoenix labs."

"Hunter, you dumbass, you've been had. This is _MacGyver_! He's Phoenix' top operative!" Ryan's eyes shifted uneasily from Hunter back to Mac. He looked suddenly frightened.

_He's green. He's only just realised that recognition goes both ways . . ._

The lights in the cabin flickered twice and went out.

_Zak found the generator! Yesss!_

At the first flicker, Mac had squeezed his eyes shut; when he opened them again a moment later, the windowless room was plunged into darkness and his own eyes had already started to adjust. Ryan was a distinct silhouette in the doorway, outlined by the dim light filtering in from the entryway, where threads of daylight leaked in from the chinks around the poorly sealed main door.

It was just as well that Mac couldn't see the younger man's face. It made it easier to resist the inclination to break it. Instead, he aimed his fist at Ryan's stomach, grappled him when he doubled up with an agonised whuff, spun him around and slung him hard towards the remembered location of Don and Travis. The thumps and bellows told him that he'd remembered close enough.

Seizing Ruth was easy; she'd remained stock-still in place when the lights went out, and when she felt Mac's hold on her she clutched back as best as she could. Her grip felt frail and light, and the added adrenaline of rage made everything else seem to be moving slowly. Mac leapt for the doorway into the hall, set Ruth down and slammed his shoulder against the open door, feeling the solid crunch as it smacked hard against whoever had been closest behind him. He yanked at the knob, and the screws that he had loosened beforehand ripped out of the wood, leaving the doorknob in his hand. He rapped it sharply against the remnants of the locking mechanism and heard the clunk as the other half of the doorknob fell away inside the room. It gave him the extra moment he needed to throw the bolt; the rasp echoed in his memory from hearing the same door locked on him.

He handed the doorknob to Ruth. "Here. Hold that."

Two hard stomps flattened two of the cans from the bag he'd scattered earlier, and with two well-aimed kicks the flattened cans were wedged firmly under the door. From the thumps and thuds from inside the room, Hunter and his men were still stumbling around in the dark and hadn't yet found the lantern, or gathered their wits to start a concentrated assault on the door.

MacGyver grabbed Ruth again and ran out of the cabin, towards the parked vehicles. She felt frighteningly light in his arms, too much like one of the younger kids at the Challengers Club.

"That will give them some grief, but it won't hold them for long," she gasped.

"It'll be enough," Mac grunted. "It'll have to be." He dodged between a battered Ford sedan – probably the same car that had given him such a rough ride in the trunk – and a nearly new SUV. The SUV bore a heavy coat of dust and showed fresh gravel dings on a formerly pristine finish; Mac guessed it was Ryan's. He himself had driven the last stretch to the cabin in Zak's car, a white Chevy as nondescript as mashed potatoes; but he had left it parked well away from the others, on the far side of the clearing.

Mac stopped next to a dusty, battered pickup with a gun rack – probably Hunter's – and set Ruth down again. He peered around the rear of the car, back towards the cabin. There was no sign yet of anyone coming out.

Behind him, Ruth was leaning heavily against the truck. "MacGyver – I truly hate having to admit this, but I don't think I can run very far. I'm not even sure I can manage walking for any distance." Her face was chalk-white under its bruises.

"You won't have to." Mac reached into the bed of Hunter's truck and pulled aside a blue tarp that covered part of the truck bed. "All you gotta do is stay put. Zak Abrams will come get you as soon as it's clear, and get you outta here. Can you hang onto these for me?" Mac handed her Dexter's glasses. Ruth was still clutching the doorknob; he retrieved it from her and boosted her up into the back of the truck, keeping one eye on the cabin. "Get under the tarp and lie still."

Ruth's face had lit up. "Zak is _here_? How the hell did you – never mind, tell me later." She half-tumbled into the truck, wincing as she landed.

"Can you get me that length of rope there, and the wrench? And hang on a moment – " Mac pulled out his knife, caught at the hem of her tweed slacks, and cut away a ragged strip. He took a moment to pull the edge into shreds with his fingers – the last thing he wanted was for the scrap to look as if it had been cut off.

As soon as he was finished, Ruth handed him the gear from the back of the truck with a wry look. "And would monsieur like anything else?"

"You got a handkerchief?"

Ruth dug in her pockets and handed him a dainty scrap of monogrammed linen. Mac looked at it ruefully. "You might not get this back."

"I'll buy a new one. Or switch to Kleenex."

"Don't do that," Mac said earnestly. "Kleenex wouldn't work."

Ruth glowered at him and began to crawl under the tarp. "What are you planning to do?"

He slung the coil of rope around his shoulder and chest. "I'm gonna try to draw them off."

She checked in the middle of pulling the tarp over herself, and stared at him. "You intend to play rabbit to that entire pack? MacGyver, they're rabid dogs!"

Mac's eyes glowed like black coal. "Yeah? Have you ever wondered what happens to dogs when they tangle with a wolf?"

- x -

_I didn't lie when I told Laura that I don't look back much. If I've got any personal demons following me, well, they're just gonna have to move fast enough to catch me. Then we'll see who's tougher._

_It's probably not the best way to handle things . . . but it's what I've got to work with right now, and it'll have to do._

_And sometimes, I don't have to wait for the personal demons to pop up out of nightmares or anxiety . . . sometimes, I get real live solid ones taking their place._

It had been a wet winter, and there had been a good deep snowpack up in the mountains; MacGyver had gotten in some good skiing before the season broke. They were well below the snowline here, and the hillsides to the east of Hunter's cabin showed broad brown patches between the trees, but the western slopes were still mottled with scraps of white, and there was a sharp edge to the wind that crossed the heights.

A wide patch of snow stretched out along the edge of the parking area, ahead of the first line of trees, where the shadow from the ridge would block the afternoon sun and delay the spring melt. Mac loped across it, landing hard so that his footprints would give the impression that he was weighted down, still carrying Ruth. He wanted the men to follow, and he wanted them to underestimate him – if he could get them to assume he was easy prey, they'd be a lot more careless.

Ryan might try to tell them he was better than that – or he might tell them that MacGyver never carried a gun.

Mac aimed for where the darker green of thicker brush marked the opening of a small ravine. He left the strip of cloth from Ruth's slacks tangled on a low-lying clump of chaparral, then dived into the brush, breaking as many branches as he could, leaving a clumsy trail behind himself as he hurried downslope. Behind him, he could hear men's voices, shouts and curses – they'd gotten the door open, or broken it down, and were outside the cabin. He only hoped they were sharp enough to find the trail and angry enough to follow it en masse.

As he'd expected, the watercourse was dry, with no more than an occasional muddy patch where some remnant of snowmelt had lingered after the main spring runoff. More patches of dirt-streaked snow remained in the shade-protected depths, and Mac was able to leave occasional footprints without it seeming too obvious. The ravine bent and jinked, and debouched into a larger canyon in an ankle-twisting slope of broken scree. He let his trail fade to nothing in the jumble of rocks.

He could hear the echoes of pursuit, harsh men's voices bouncing off the rocks of the ravine upslope, as he clambered up out of the canyon. The wall on the left-hand side was lower than its opposite but more sheer; he found a cleft that he could scramble up without leaving any clear sign of his passage, grappling at the occasional tenacious pine that had rooted itself in the cracks between solid masses of rock. He doubled back towards the direction of the cabin, following the ravine from above.

Mac didn't know whether any of Hunter's men had any woodcraft. He was going to have to find out fast, or risk getting a nasty surprise.

When he caught the first glimpse of movement below him, he dropped to the ground, wormed his way to the edge of the ravine and peered down from the cover of a clump of rabbitbrush. Somewhere a long way back in his mind, an old shadow shied away from the sheer edge of the rock wall, bitterly protesting the height; but MacGyver was too focused to pay any attention to it.

He pulled out his field glasses, careful that the shade of the scrub would block the intermittent sun from flashing on the lenses, and studied the pursuing men as they passed beneath him. Travis was in the lead, Jake beside him, scrambling over the rough ground; Travis was storming ahead like a high-school bully swaggering past a row of lockers. Don was next, walking lightly in spite of his bulk, glancing around anxiously at the looming rock walls. Mac frowned. The man moved like a hunter, but he seemed ill at ease.

Buck was next in the group; to Mac's surprise, Ryan was stumbling along behind. _Hunter musta sent him off with the pack – he doesn't look happy to be out here._ The other men were dressed for the terrain, in jeans and hiking boots, flannel shirts and heavy jackets, but Ryan was in poorly suited city clothes, his feet in their expensive leather oxfords slipping on the tumbled rocks of the ravine.

Mac turned his attention to Buck, and sucked in his breath. _Trouble._ Buck moved like a born woodsman, his step light and easy, the Remington hunting rifle in his hands seeming a natural extension of himself. _Not good, MacGyver – he's gonna be the toughest one to beat._

Except for Ryan and Jake, they were all carrying rifles. Mac guessed that Jake was probably armed as well. He could hear them clearly as they approached, but none of them showed any sign of looking up.

Buck stopped and peered at the dry ground. "God damn it, why'd Hunter have to leave Rocco at home this time?"

Don grunted. "Don't make much difference. That dog ain't no good as a tracker."

"That ain't the point," Travis scoffed. "The dweeb's scared shitless of dogs. All we'd need is for him to hear the barking. He'd probably keel over in a faint."

Ryan grabbed at Travis' arm. "I keep trying to _tell_ you, you don't understand what you're up against. This isn't_ Dexter_, it's _MacGyver_. He's practically a legend! You keep bulling around after him like this, you're going to walk around a corner right into some kind of fancy trap!"

Travis snorted, and Don eyed Ryan with unconcealed contempt. "And just what's he gonna use for this here trap?"

Ryan gestured helplessly around. "Shit, I don't know. Rocks! Sticks! Whatever he can find! You don't understand this guy!"

Jake brayed with mocking laughter, and Buck spat. "What's to understand, city boy? You said he don't carry no gun."

"Enough jawin'," Don snapped. "Let's find his ass so's we can git outta these goddamn hills."

Mac suddenly placed Don's accent. _Tidewater. That's it – he may be a hunter, but he's used to lowlands. He doesn't know the mountains. No wonder he's jumpy._

MacGyver worked his way back from the edge until he could stand up out of sight of the men below. He hurried forward until he was almost to the point where the ravine opened out into the canyon, and found a good thick stand of juniper to use as a screen. He watched until he caught the first glimpse of Travis rounding the last sharp bend in the ravine. The rattling clump of the men's boots told him how well sounds would carry – especially sounds that didn't belong to the natural landscape.

Mac took the doorknob from his jacket pocket, wound up as if for a pitch and hurled it with all his strength towards the broken ground of the plateau on the opposite side of the ravine. The metallic clatter as it landed well beyond the edge, rolled and bounced out of sight amongst the jumbled rocks and brush, was all he could have wished. He dropped to the ground and wriggled forward to the edge of the drop, careful to make no more noise than the passing gusts of wind, to see the reaction.

His hackles rose immediately. Buck and Travis were both on guard, peering eagerly up at the rock walls on the other side, but Don was looking up at the sky with a pensive frown. _Dang. He must be used to keepin' an eye on the sky – probably goes bird hunting a lot. I bet he caught a glimpse of the doorknob bein' thrown._

MacGyver was frantically wondering what else he could do to divert attention away from his location when a shadow passed by overhead; the sunlight winked momentarily as a red-tailed hawk crossed above them, circling on a thermal. Mac saw Don's gaze following the hawk in flight, and saw him shrug unconsciously and turn his attention back to Buck.

_Whew._

Buck was gesturing emphatically. "He musta climbed out somehow – prob'ly tryin' to git to the road. Dumbass. Don, you take Travis and cut around where that canyon opens up – git yerselves back up to the top and head him off from that side. I'll take the boys and cut around his other side. Looks like we can climb out right along here."

Travis shifted his gun. "Does Hunter care if he don't come back in one piece?"

"Mebbe Hunter cares. I don't."

Ryan caught at Buck's arm this time. "I'm telling you, you're making a big mistake. This whole thing's probably some kind of trap. Or a diversion. Stop assuming he's an idiot!"

Buck eyed the hand on his arm. "You tryin' to tell me how to go huntin', city boy?"

Ryan snatched his hand back. "Okay, so I'm not much good out here! I admit it! Tell you what, I'll go back to the cabin – someone really ought to warn Hunter to keep an eye out. What if MacGyver just turns back?"

"You stayin' right here with me, city boy." Buck's voice was soft, but the menace in it carried even to where Mac lay in hiding. "Jake, git back to the cabin. Tell Hunter this feller might could be fixin' to double back. Tell him to keep his eyes skinned." Ryan started to protest, but his objections froze on his lips at another arctic glance from Buck.

"What about the old lady?" Jake asked. "I didn't think she coulda run this far."

"Reckon she didn't," Don said. Buck nodded in agreement.

"You think he's carrying her?"

"Nope." Buck gestured to Don and Travis, and they turned away downslope. "I reckon she's still somewheres up near the cabin, hiding. You tell Hunter that too." He gave a curt jerk of his head to order Ryan to follow, and started to scramble up the broken ledges of the ravine wall.

_You won't tell him anything. Not if I can help it._

The ground along the top of the ravine was far less broken than the rugged passage of the dry watercourse; MacGyver easily beat Jake back to the point near the cabin where they'd first entered the cleft. Jake never saw what hit him as he emerged, gasping for breath with the altitude and the scramble up the slope.

_Another city boy . . . never even thought to look up._

Mac left Jake lying unconscious under a thicket of scrub oak, his hands taped behind him and his mouth sealed, and turned back to follow the hunting party.

_That's one._

He melted into the sparse cover of the highland forest.

- x -

MacGyver stood for a few minutes at the head of the ravine, debating which side to follow back down. _Buck musta found the doorknob by now. And he won't find any tracks or other sign around it . . . is he gonna figure out what I was doing? He might try crossing back over and looking on the other side – or will he cast out from where he finds the knob and try to cut my trail?_ Mac looked up to see the hawk circling again, dipping down close to the tops of the lodgepole pines scattered around on the left-hand side.

_Good enough. We'll assume he's smart. Will he try to get the others back from goin' off in the wrong direction? That'd slow him down pretty bad – no, we'll assume he's impatient. And arrogant. He's gonna want to win, and that means beatin' the other hunters to the prey._

Mac's eyes glinted as he began to work his way down the mesa top, flanking his own upwards trail, his senses alert to the presence of the hunters. _Funny how I don't feel much like prey._

Other than the hawk, nothing seemed to stir in that direction; the wind that gathered in the trees was pushing patches of clouds across the sky, occasionally dimming the sunlight. Each time the sun was cut off, the wind seemed to have a sharper edge to it.

It was Ryan's voice that tipped Mac off first, although his instincts were already keyed up by the absence of any other activity – no birds or small animals, not even jays scolding. Ryan's voice had the grating quality of a fractious squirrel.

"Buck, for god's sake, I keep trying to tell you. He's _good_. The story is he's part native American, that's why he's so good in the field . . ."

"An' I keep tellin' you to shut up. You think bein' a fuckin' half-breed makes him better'n me?"

"He fooled you with that doorknob, didn't he?"

A moment's sullen silence followed this, before Mac heard a dour mutter, " . . . ain't gonna help him none in the end."

The voices were approaching, drawing closer; following the trail Mac had left when he'd tailed Jake back towards the cabin. He hadn't tried to conceal his passage then, and for someone like Buck, he might as well have painted arrows on the trees.

_No point kickin' myself about that now . . . and it means he'll stick to the trail, at least for the moment._

Mac hastened back up along his track again, needing to get a jump ahead of the pursuers without outdistancing them by too much. He stopped when he figured he'd built up enough of a lead, and looked around for a good location – close to his own trail, but not quite in a direct line of sight to it.

He didn't have much time, and he had to get the timing right. But he had a clear mental image of what he wanted, and he'd collected and prepared his materials as he went. He'd cut off a length from his coil of rope and unraveled it to form cordage, and picked up a long branch from under a fir tree and broken off the straightest length he could manage.

MacGyver hung the fir branch as a balancing lever from the bough of a convenient pine. For a counterweight, he had Ruth's handkerchief, tied into a pouch filled with the light, dry, sandy soil of the mesa top. Once he had the balance right, he poked a hole with his awl blade in the bottom of the pouch, and a trickle of fine soil began to run out like sand in an hourglass. In a few minutes, it would lose enough weight so that the lever would tilt the other way and release its load.

A fire-based time delay trigger would have been easier to set up, but it would have been insanity. Even in the relative dampness of early spring, these hills were too parched and thirsty to risk exposing them to fire. Mac glanced from the running vein of sand back down the trail in the direction of the approaching hunters, estimating the relative progress, and widened the hole slightly. Then he slipped into the cover of a nearby thicket of scrub oak.

In the end, he nearly got the timing wrong; Buck and Ryan were already past his hiding place before the lever tilted and the makeshift bark cup at the other end spilled its load of pebbles onto the bare rock beneath. But the ruse worked even better than MacGyver had hoped; the rattle of stones sounded almost exactly like an incautious foot slipping on broken ground. Better still – Buck, hearing the sound come from behind him, whipped round on sudden alert, bringing his rifle up and peering ahead. He began to move, softly and carefully, towards the source of the unexpected noise.

Mac had placed himself so that Buck passed his hiding place on his way to where the rigged decoy hung from the tree. Mac wasn't able to see Buck's expression as he studied the contraption, although he could imagine it well enough from the man's body language: approaching cautiously, drawing himself upright and then leaning closer to study it. There would be a suspicious crease in the forehead, and an added squint to the eyes as he glanced around, trying to see if there was any other sign. Mac noticed that Buck looked up into the trees as well as peering farther into the thicket; and he saw the shift in tension when the man spotted the bright flash of red cloth on the ground underneath a nearby clump of coyote brush.

"What the hell . . . that's _Jake's_ bandana." he muttered. He squatted down and reached under the bushes for the crumpled cloth. He let out a ferocious screech as his fingers were impaled by the small sections of pincushion cactus MacGyver had swaddled in the cloth. The howl broke the uneasy silence of the forest, but there was more anger than pain to it.

Ryan had been trailing behind him, looking nervous; he literally jumped at the explosion of rage and blasphemy. He was staring at Buck as the man cursed and waved his hand, and didn't see Mac step out from behind the thicket until he was right in front of him, swinging the heavy long-handled wrench he'd taken from the back of Hunter's pickup.

In spite of everything, MacGyver hadn't been able to bring himself to clobber Ryan from behind – no matter how much the man deserved it. Instead, he felt a sense of déjà vu as he buried the wrench in Ryan's stomach, seized him as he doubled over and slung him in the direction of Buck, who had turned around with alarming speed at the noise and was trying to bring his gun to bear. Mac had hoped that a handful of cactus needles might loosen his grip on the gun, but apparently rage was burning hotter than the discomfort.

Buck fell back, knocking Ryan sideways with the gun barrel to give himself a clear space in which to move. This time, as he brought up the rifle and grasped the stock, he clearly felt the jabbing of the cactus thorns, and flinched in spite of the anger and adrenaline. Mac had closed in while Buck was dealing with Ryan, and now he seized the fractional moment of opportunity when Buck's grip on the gunstock was loosened, and lashed out with a flying kick at the man's other hand where it held the forend grip.

His foot connected and he heard Buck yell, but the move had put Mac off-balance on the rough ground. Buck staggered, but somehow managed to keep his tenacious hold of the rifle, and swung it around as MacGyver tried to catch himself. A blaze of fire creased Mac's scalp as the notched sight of the gun barrel raked his head.

Mac put up his left hand and grabbed the barrel, and turned his own lurching movement into a tumble, using the impetus of the roll to twist on the rifle until it finally corkscrewed out of Buck's grasp. He had no time to do anything with it; Buck was on him, roaring with fury, tackling him with a force that knocked the wind out of him.

"_Goddamn nigger-lovin' Commie Jew-boy . . . !_"

Blood was running into Mac's eyes from the cut on his scalp, and there was nothing left but instinct and the refusal to be reduced to prey. He was certain Buck would simply start hammering on him while he was lying on his back on the stony earth, winded; but instead, the man went for his rifle again, clawing at it where it lay beside MacGyver.

Mac brought his right hand up, still holding the wrench, and felled Buck with a single blow, as if he had taken a hatchet to a sapling.

The man's bulk fell heavily on top of him where he lay, and it took Mac some moments to squirm out from underneath and check for a pulse. It was still strong, although he'd left a bleeding scrape on Buck's head to match the one on his own. He put a hand up to his own forehead and probed gingerly, grimacing, bringing his hand away dappled with scarlet. His head ached, but his vision wasn't blurred; that was something.

_That's two._

- x -


	15. Eleven: Fauvist

________

**Aftershocks**

_**Eleven: Fauvist**_

- x -

_It's been a good many years since the last time I went hunting . . . and after the number of Phoenix-sponsored wildlife studies I've worked on, I haven't got any plans for it, not unless it's a question of survival. If that does happen again – and it might – well, I'll just have to figure out the right spot for me on the food chain. It doesn't have to be right at the top, but that sure beats the bottom._

_But I grew up in hunting country. Back then, it wasn't about trophies and boasting over beer; it was about getting food that didn't cost money, although you paid for it in time and sweat and icy feet and getting up before dawn in all kinds of weather. I was twelve when I bagged my first deer – almost a hundred pounds of meat in the freezer, and some of the worry lines in my mom's face smoothed out for a while._

_On the other side of things – this wasn't the first time I'd been hunted, either. It probably won't be the last._

MacGyver made sure Buck wouldn't be able to follow him, although he left the man's unconscious, trussed body out in the open, where searchers would be able to find it easily. He was uneasily aware of the weather, which was growing more broken as the afternoon waned. Ryan was nowhere in sight; he must have recovered enough while Mac was struggling with Buck to get up and stagger off.

He put up a hand to push the hair out of his eyes, and gave a strangled yelp: the cut on his head had stopped bleeding, and he'd already half-forgotten it was there. He used Buck's hunting knife to cut loose a long strip of dark cloth from the cotton lining of Buck's field jacket, and tied it around his head. It would do for the moment.

Mac picked up Buck's rifle and removed all but the single chambered round, spilling the cartridges into his hand. _Can't just toss 'em – the lead's toxic to wildlife _. . . He found himself studying the rounds in his cupped palm.

MacGyver rarely paid any direct attention to the way his overactive mind hummed along in the background, incessantly examining and cataloguing his surroundings. When he needed it, the awareness of available resources always seemed to be there: but he'd found out very young that it seemed to work better when he didn't focus on the process. One moment, the bullets in his hand were solid metal objects: _shape – cylinders, one end flat, one pointed; composition – metal: lead, copper and brass, nonferrous, toxic, low melting point; polished, reflective; about 55 grains of powder in each cartridge; size, weight, density_ – in the next moment, they were simply hunting ammunition, central to an entire way of life. Each one could take a deer, or even an elk, and feed a community.

The next moment, the solid chunks of metal lost all semblance of innocence. With LA drowning in handguns, Mac had taken some deep-rooted comfort in the awareness that somewhere, away from the asphalt and the gangs and the grinding dehumanisation of the deadly struggle in the inner city, there were still places where guns were tools instead of weapons. Deep inside, he now felt a blaze of rage and a sense of near-blasphemy. It seemed a horrible perversion, to take a hunting rifle and set out to use it for murder – to stalk a human being as if he were just another kind of game animal.

And there were still two more hunters looking for his trail.

Mac stuffed the ammunition into his jacket pocket as if it had begun to burn his fingers. The Remington was equipped with a fancy scope, an illuminated 4x-16x AO with a bullet drop compensator. A moment's work on the mount with the screwdriver blade on his knife, and the scope unclamped from the rifle. He pocketed that too.

MacGyver aimed the gun at a nearby rise of ground and fired off the one remaining shot, grimacing as the report shattered the uneasy quiet of the woods. _That oughta put the others a little off guard – if they hear just one shot, they'll probably figure Buck caught up with me._

He pulled the bolt out of the Remington and pocketed it as well, then slung the rifle into the heart of a thicket of whitethorn and chamise. Without the scope and with no fixed sights, it couldn't be fired accurately at any distance; but without the bolt, it couldn't be fired at all, even if another hunter had compatible ammunition.

He turned his attention to the broken line of Ryan's flight.

_He sure left a nice clear trail – he musta gone to fetch Don and Travis, or to warn them – oh, __man__. Does he remember there's a ravine in the way?_

The clear sign led, somewhat erratically, back in the right direction. It reached the ravine along one of its steeper sections, where the walls fell away in sheer rock slabs, with few ledges or opportunistic bushes to offer handholds.

_Aw, dang it._

Mac heaved an exasperated sigh as he studied the prospect, trying to pinpoint exactly where Ryan might have attempted the descent. For a very long moment, the skin on his shoulders and back seemed to tighten up and pull back, as if his own body was trying of its own volition to shy away from the brink of the cliff. It took a deliberate act of will to break himself out of the freeze and step out towards the edge, his feet dragging slightly, tennis shoes scuffing against the rocks.

In response to the sound, Ryan's voice came up out of the ravine, pinched and frantic. "Buck? Is that you?"

Mac felt his temper flare again at the sound of the voice, and had to bite back his first impulse. He didn't know whether he wanted to walk away, drop rocks, or just stand over the other man and swear. He compromised by doing nothing.

"Buck! Answer me, damn it! I tried to climb down and I'm _stuck_! My feet keep slipping! I can't hold on much longer . . . "

Mac finally replied. "Y'know, Ryan, you really wore the wrong shoes for this kinda exercise."

"_MacGyver_?" Mac heard a scrabbling below him. "_Exercise_? Is _that_ what you call this?"

"Sure. It's a new field test for operatives," Mac said drily. "It's called 'Easter Eggs'. The first team – that's me – goes out into the woods and hides Nazis under the bushes. Then we'll time how long it takes the Forest Service rangers to find them all. Sound like fun?"

"MacGyver – Mac – it-it's not what you think . . . about Ruth, I mean, I didn't know . . . "

"_Save it_." Mac was unslinging the rope and setting knots towards the end. "I'm gonna drop a rope down to you. When it reaches you, don't put your weight on it all at once. You understand? Get a good hold on it, but then use it to steady yourself so you can walk yourself up the cliff."

"You're asking me to climb up a rope?"

"Well, yeah, unless you're on the verge of figuring out the whole flying business. You really picked a bad stretch of cliffs to try to go freeclimbing on."

"MacGyver, give me a break." Ryan's voice sounded leaden and miserable. "I was the kind of kid who got beat up because I couldn't climb the rope in gym class. Can't you lower me instead?"

"You're way closer to the top than you are to the bottom. And, Ryan, you really oughta think about this: I've got _no_ reason to trust you, and I don't want you runnin' around loose. So it's my way or the highway – or, in this case, you can choose between a short climb or a long fall. Which is it gonna be?" Mac didn't wait for an answer; he started paying out the rope. He could feel when Ryan caught at it awkwardly, and he set his footing firmly as the younger man's weight shifted. "I put a set of butterfly loops in about five feet from the end – grab hold of those. They look kinda like the hanging straps on commuter buses. Use those to steady yourself while you get your feet placed for the climb."

He felt the load on the rope steady. Ryan had taken the line. "You got a good hold on the rope?" Mac called out.

"Y-yeah . . . "

"You sure?" Mac shifted position so that a few inches of the rope suddenly slipped closer to the edge. He had belayed the rope around a sturdy pine, and it was quite secure; but Ryan couldn't see that.

He heard the young man screech with terror. "Ohmygod! The rope's slipping . . . wait, no, it's stopped . . . "

"You holding on tight now?" Mac paid out a few more inches in a sudden spurt, bringing it up to a halt again with a sharp jerk. He heard Ryan wail.

"What the hell are you doing? I'm going to fall!"

"Not if you hold on tight."

"You're doing this on purpose!"

"Ya think?" Mac could feel the tension on the rope between his fingers as Ryan clutched at it.

"Stop fucking around! Pull me up!"

"Hmm. I don't know about that . . . " Another few inches.

"MacGyver. What the hell are you _doing_? Don't do this. They say you're not like this."

"Do they? Y'know, I keep wonderin' who 'they' are. I bet 'they' told you I don't use a gun." Mac's voice was a soft, deadly murmur. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe _I don't need one_?"

"MacGyver, _please_. For god's sake! You'll kill me if you let me fall!"

"Oh, I don't think so," Mac replied cheerfully. "It's only about twelve, maybe fifteen feet, y'know. Twenty at the most. How far down are you right now? You'll probably just break a leg . . . or maybe both legs. Depends on how hard you land." There was a deathly silence from below, except for the occasional whistling gasps of fear. "Of course, you wouldn't be able to walk . . . you'd be kinda stuck there till help came. How much can you count on your Nazi friends, Ryan?"

"They're not my friends, damn it!"

"They aren't?" Mac sounded distressed. "Man, you could be in real trouble, then. Especially if you end up at the bottom of this ravine . . . and I'm the only one who knows where you are . . . and they shoot me, since that's what they've got in mind . . . well, it could be a while before anyone finds you." Mac twitched the rope. "Didja notice it's getting pretty cold when the sun goes behind a cloud? It'll drop below freezing right after the sun sets."

"Oh my god . . . you're going to leave me to freeze to death . . . "

"Oh, don't be so worried. Your suit's wool, right? And so's the coat. No, you're not gonna freeze to death. And there's still some pockets of snow down there, so you probably won't die of thirst, either. And starving takes a real long time. Did you know that?" Another twitch of the rope, dropping Ryan another inch. "That's why they had to gas them in the death camps, you know. Starving took too long. It wasn't efficient. The Nazis were real big on efficiency."

Mac felt a change in the silence below. _Capitulation._

"Who's Rolf Schmidt, Ryan? He's gotta be a relative, right? Uncle? Grandfather?"

"He's my grandfather." Ryan's voice was faint and broken.

"Is he the Professor?"

"What? What the hell are you talking about?" Mac felt a movement in the rope and guessed that Ryan had roused himself and was trying to clamber up. He twitched the rope again and felt the movement freeze at the other end.

"Why'd you do it, Ryan?" Mac didn't try to hide the bitter regret and anger in his voice. "You've been at Phoenix for almost a year. Didn't that mean _anything_ to you? Were you a Nazi all along?"

"God _damn_ you! I'm not a Nazi!"

"Then why are you workin' for them? Your grandfather's a Nazi, you know."

"He is not! He – he just – god damn you, I had to save him from your fucking witch-hunt! You'd have – he said you'd have his citizenship yanked, and he'd be sent back to Germany and tried for war crimes." Ryan was almost sobbing. "What the hell was I supposed to do? Let you kick him out of the country?"

"Didja ever think that he might deserve it?"

"It was years ago! You think he had a choice when he was younger? He was . . . "

"Lemme guess." Mac's voice had a cutting edge much sharper than the biting wind. "He was just following orders."

MacGyver could feel a trembling in the rope in his hands, as if Ryan's sobbing was sending shivers up the line. "You don't under_stand_ . . . "

Mac took a deep breath. He needed more information while he still had the upper hand. "So you saw Grandad's name in the files, and figured you'd just do him a favour, huh?"

"I – I told him about it – he'd been edgy ever since the arrest last fall . . . I didn't even know he'd really been involved in the war. He never talked about it before this . . . he _begged_ me to make certain he'd be safe. What was I supposed to do? I thought it was all settled. I told him nothing was going to happen with the Brandenburg files . . ."

"Yeah, you tried to make sure of that, didn't you?"

"For god's sake! Those files were nothing but a mass of liabilities – it's not like you could ever have _used_ any of it!"

" 'You'?" Ryan didn't answer. Mac pressed on. "So Phoenix is 'you' now, huh? Not 'us'? Was it ever 'us'?"

"Ms. Prajna agreed! The head counsel accepted that the liability was too high!"

"Based on your assessment?"

"M-MacGyver . . . _please_ . . . "

"What about Hunter? You tried to erase his name from the list too. Why?"

"G-Grandfather asked me to do it . . . h-he asked me if Hunter was in the files, and I checked and told him yes . . ."

"Oh, so you were just followin' orders too? So much for your confidentiality pledge, huh?" Mac waited for a moment, but Ryan didn't respond. "How long has he known Hunter, anyway?"

"I – I don't know . . . I think he mentioned him a couple of times . . . I didn't really pay attention. I figured it was coincidence, them both being in the damned files, but Grandfather was so worried . . . "

"And it's just coincidence that Grandpa's buddy is a neo-Nazi?"

"I had no idea about any of that!"

"Was it your grandad's idea to have Ruth killed? Was she that dangerous to him?"

"Killed? What are you talking about? They wouldn't have – no, they couldn't – "

"Ryan, there've been three attempts on Ruth's life in the last three months. Not counting the kidnapping." Mac gave the rope a jerk. "And _you_ led them right to her in the hospital. Did you help them snatch her?"

"I didn't know they were going to do that!"

"What did you _think_ they were gonna do? Ask her for an autograph? Interview her for White Supremacist Weekly?"

Ryan suddenly seemed to find a second wind. "Oh, don't you get all holier-than-thou on me. Ruth fought in the same war as my grandfather. How many people do you think _she_ killed? The only difference is that her side won. Otherwise, it would be Grandfather with the medals and Ruth being tried for war crimes. Did _you_ ever think of _that_?"

"The 'only difference' . . . ?" Mac closed his eyes, pain washing over his face and his mind.

Mac felt a different kind of tugging from the other end of the rope. Ryan had overcome his panic and sense of helplessness. "MacGyver, you can't treat people like this!"

_Ah. Now we get the bluster._ "I can't? Dang. You mean none of this is really happening? You're imagining it all?"

"God damn you, you know what I mean!"

"And _I_ imagine that if I let you out of this ravine, once we're home safe you're gonna have me charged with assault, and probably sue me for harassment as well." While he spoke, Mac glanced at the footing behind him; it would probably be simplest to back up slowly while Ryan climbed the ravine wall, but that would put him a longer distance away when Ryan finally reached the top. Better to haul him in like a sack of flour, although it would be more effort. "Tell ya what. Now that we've had a nice little talk, why don't you stop dangling around and get your butt out of there? Get a good hold of the rope, plant your feet against the wall and walk up. It's nothin' like climbing in gym class – if they'd had this kind of set-up, more of us would have gotten outta high school unhumiliated."

This time, Mac felt Ryan begin to move. "If you let me fall, so help me . . . "

"Y'know, Ryan, you're not in a great position to be making threats."

In the end, it took longer to get Ryan to actually start climbing than it did to get him to the top. His worst moment came when he had to drag himself over the lip of the cliff edge; Mac had made the rope fast to a tree, and held out a hand to help pull him the last few precious inches, but Ryan suddenly reverted to mistrust and balked at the offer of help. Finally, he lay face-down on the lichened surface of the rock outcropping overlooking the ravine, gasping and shaking. Mac took his arm and gave him a gentle tug.

"C'mon. You need to get farther away from the edge."

He led the stumbling lawyer a good dozen yards away from the drop, then left him while he went back to collect and coil the rope. When he returned, Ryan had sunk back to the ground and was staring vacantly into the distance. He glanced up at Mac.

"You'll have to give me a minute – sorry – I'll be okay – "

_Funny, I don't remember asking._ "No sweat," Mac replied easily. "You might as well stay put and get comfortable. You're gonna be sittin' there for a while." He pulled the roll of duct tape out of his jacket pocket.

"MacGyver, what are you . . . " Ryan eyed the duct tape with a look of horror.

"Like I told you, I've got no reason to trust you, and I don't want you runnin' around loose. I've still got two of your hunting buddies – "

"They're not my damned 'buddies'!"

"Well, they sure aren't mine! Like I said, I've got two more of them to deal with, and not a whole lot of daylight left. I can't be worrying about what you might get up to once I'm not around." He squatted behind Ryan and pulled his hands behind him. He could feel the fight still seething in the young man.

"MacGyver – "

"Oh, don't tell me – 'Look both ways before you cross a lawyer.' Right? You're about to start talking about, let's see – harassment again? Assault? Unlawful imprisonment?"

He leaned over Ryan's shoulder and spoke earnestly into his ear as he taped his wrists. "Maybe I oughta remind you about some of the fine print in the contract you signed when Phoenix hired you. It's been a while since I read it myself, but lemme see – any violation of Foundation security or confidentiality that endangers or impedes a criminal investigation is a prosecutable offense under California law. And given how much work we do for the LA cops, the DA's office gets pretty hard-nosed about anyone messing up that way."

Ryan had grown still, and Mac moved around in front of him and secured his ankles. "So you go right ahead and work on your plans to sue me, or Pete, or the Foundation, for whatever you can come up with. But you're gonna be filing that lawsuit from prison. You can go ahead and try, of course. You'll have the same rights as any other convict. I'm not gonna lose a lot of sleep about it myself."

_Three. Or two and a half, anyway._

- x -

MacGyver didn't find Don and Travis where he expected them to be, anywhere on the farther plateau beyond where he'd thrown the doorknob. Not only were they missing, there wasn't even any sign of their passage.

_Huh. Okay, so they never got here. Where, then . . . ?_

He looked up at the sun. It was westering, and there weren't many more hours of daylight. Mac visualised the two men as he'd last seen them: Travis brash and aggressive, eager to come to grips with his enemy, Don ill at ease in the tangled maze of the canyons and mesas. They'd been sent into the branch canyon and instructed to work their way around to flank MacGyver's supposed location.

Mac took a bearing on the sun and hurried farther back into the hills.

It took him more than an hour to find them. He finally cut their trail running along an entirely different mesa, heading ever farther away from the cabin, the road, and any habitation. He guessed they'd misjudged the bends and twists of the canyon walls and climbed up the wrong side of the wrong canyon, and probably grown too disoriented to be able to work out where they'd gone wrong. Don, by the looks of it, was used to the lowlands of the East coast; once he'd gotten off on the wrong tack, his woodcraft was as likely to betray him as to save him. And Travis was obviously no help at all.

Travis did prove valuable in one way: Mac heard them before he saw them. They knew they were lost, and from the sounds of it, Travis had been carrying on a running monologue of complaint for some time. Without it, Mac might have been caught in spite of his care: they had turned around and were following their own backtrail.

"Don, don't be a fucking idiot! I'm telling you, all we have to do is cut over that way – "

"You got no damned idea where we're goin'! But at least I can figger out where we been."

"Backtracking's gonna take hours! Listen, all we have to do is just cut over across this rise, and I betcha we'll be back where we started – "

"Travis, if you bet fer real the way you bet fer braggin', I'd ask you over for a poker game. 'Cept I hate the sound of your goddamned voice. Your goddamned 'shortcuts' got us here in the first place." Don stopped in his tracks and peered up at the scudding clouds that were playing peekaboo with the sun, scowling. "Left my goddamned compass back at the cabin – an' it seems ever' time we get a good look at the sun, these goddamned hills have switched round on us again!"

He glanced around irresolutely. MacGyver suddenly felt his hackles rise, but not because of the hunters. The woods had grown too still in the last few minutes, and even the wind in the branches seemed hushed. There was a sudden raucous noise of chattering birds, and a flurry of towhees, nuthatches and chickadees erupted into the sky and scattered.

The trees began to sway and ripple in a manner that owed nothing to the gusting wind, and Mac quickly slipped well away from the jumbled mass of rocks where he'd been crouching. There was a stand of mountain juniper nearby – thinner cover, but much safer in case the quake got bad enough that the rocks started sliding.

The first tremor was short, only a few moments of swaying. The one that followed a few moments later was longer, the ground seeming to ripple impossibly, like a boat rocking on a rising sea. MacGyver went down on his hands and knees and gritted his teeth until the lurching subsided. He'd lost count of the number of quakes he'd been through – it was part of living in southern California – but they never stopped being unnerving. It just wasn't _right_ for solid ground to wobble like that.

The tremors subsided, and the birds began to settle back into the trees and chirp again; he could even hear a squirrel chattering somewhere. _Back to normal_. Much closer, he heard explosive swearing from the two hunters. _Guess that's normal too._

It was Travis' voice that he heard, as he clambered cautiously back up onto the rocks that overlooked where they'd last been. "Jesus Christ, Don, it was just a little bit of a quake. You get used to them. Get a grip."

Mac peered down at them, as Don tried to stagger back to his feet. His legs were unsteady beneath him, and he sat down heavily, breathing in gasps, his hands shaking when he tried to brush the dust off. _Man, they sure picked a bad spot to ride out a quake._ The hunters had been following a natural track that ran past a granite outcropping, and the tremor had caught them while they were between the stone face on one side and the jumbled mass of boulders on the other.

_Real__ bad if you're not used to the mountains._

Mac fished in his pocket for the scope he'd taken from Buck's gun. It took a few moments to dismantle it and remove the lenses, but when he was done he had a hollow metal cylinder a little over a foot long with flared openings at both ends.

When he used it as a speaking tube, the sound projected through the scope and echoed off the rock walls, sounding tinny and almost disembodied. His voice echoed cheerfully around the men below him, seeming to come from all directions at once.

"Hey, guys. You havin' fun yet?"

Don literally jumped, peering around wide-eyed. Travis' face went purple.

"What the _fuck _– "

"Jeez, Travis, can't you let up on the cussing?"

"How the hell did you follow us out here, you little creep?" Travis was still looking around, trying to figure out where the mocking voice was coming from. "What about that shot we heard?"

"That was me."

Don finally spoke. "I'da swore that was Buck's gun."

"It was."

Don and Travis looked at each other uneasily. Tucked up in his perch in the rocks, Mac took the bolt from the Remington out of his pocket and scraped it against the rough metal of the adjusting ring on the scope, imitating the distinctive triple ka-chunk of a bolt-action rifle. The sound wasn't quite the same, but in the distorting echo chamber of the rocks, it was close enough.

Mac raised the scope to his mouth again and shifted slightly so that the echoes would bounce off a different section of the rocks. "So here's what's gonna happen next. You're both gonna set your guns down nice and gentle, walk a dozen paces away, and lie face-down on the ground till I come and collect you. That's if you're willin' to do this the easy way. Or we could do it the hard way. But if you're expecting any of your buddies to show up and help – it's gonna be a long wait. I already took care of them." The breezy, cheerful confidence in Mac's voice was edged with icy steel underneath. "Or, if you like, I suppose we can all just hang out till the Sheriff's department gets here. They're on their way."

Don drew a long breath, and his shoulders sagged. Something in the set of his head told Mac what the last few hours had been like for him: the disorienting landscape, the worsening weather, the insufferable Travis, and finally the quake. He looked tired.

Travis looked mutinous. He glared at Don. "You're not gonna _listen_ to this crap, are you?"

Don eyed him. "Travis, I know for goddamn sure that you ain't got enough brains to season a catfish, so mebbe you'd better let me do the thinkin' for us both. It's over. I don't aim to freeze out here, and I figger it just might be a bit easier on us if we walk back under our own steam."

Travis' face turned opaque. "Fuck you." He hefted his gun and started to turn a slow circle, peering around the circumscribed horizon for MacGyver.

Don lifted his own rifle in turn. Travis heard the sound of the bolt and turned to him, smirking at the thought that he'd bested the other man.

He froze when he found himself staring down the barrel of the Winchester.

"Travis, you heard what the feller said. You put that goddamned fancy cannon of yours down, nice and easy, and you stroll a few paces away and lie down yourself. An' I'm gonna do the same thing. 'Bout time we-all took ourselfs a break. Yunnerstand?"

Mac disabled both rifles as before, pocketing the ammunition and removing the bolts. He scowled at Travis' rifle, a pricey Safari-grade Browning A-Bolt with a highly polished stock and elaborately engraved metalwork. _High-caliber ammo – did he think he was gonna go out and shoot an elephant?_ He would have preferred to toss the rifles away, or at least the bolts, but they had to be brought back as evidence – and he remembered that there was an open murder investigation in Leimert Park involving the apparently motiveless shooting of a young black mother with a .375 H&H.

He had left the two hunters still lying face-down, their wrists taped behind their backs, while he dealt with the guns. A quick search had relieved them of hunting knives, ammo pouches, and an extra sidearm that Travis was packing – a .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda. _Man, this guy is a walking cliché_. Now he slid each man's disabled rifle in turn behind his back crosswise and lashed each man's arms securely to his gun. It would make walking awkward, and running even more difficult. His own pockets were getting full; since the two rifles were different calibers, he compromised by stuffing the bolt and ammo from each man's gun into the other man's jacket pockets.

Travis immediately began to protest. "You're gonna cripple me. I can't feel my hands! You know how much this weighs?"

"You might consider carrying a lighter gun," Mac replied as he helped Don clamber to his feet.

Don snorted. "Don't mind him none. His shoulder's prob'ly all hamburger from gettin' pounded by that oversized popgun a' his'n."

"Where the fuck is _your_ gun?" Travis exploded, once he finally got a good look at Mac.

"Don't have one. Didn't Ryan tell you?"

"Where's Buck's rifle?" Don suddenly asked.

"Most of it's lying under a bush, not too far from where I left Buck."

"Did you kill him?"

"Nope. Just made sure he'd still be there when the sheriff comes by."

Travis' face looked purple. "Dexter, you goddamned little freak – "

"The name isn't Dexter. It's MacGyver. Ryan told you that too; you just didn't listen."

"Don, you goddamned woman, we coulda taken him! He wasn't even armed! God _damn_ it!"

"Travis, would you just suck it up already?" Don snapped. "I knew it was gonna end up all wrong when that Hunter laid rough hands on a white woman."

Travis whirled on him like a rabid dog, snarling. "We shoulda just shot that old Jew-loving bitch when we had the chance!" He turned to glare at MacGyver. "And you're even worse! It's fucking nigger-loving race traitors like you that're ruinin' this great country!"

Mac had a feeling the hike back was going to be unpleasant.

- x -

It was.

_Funny about bullies – they always have this amazing radar. They can figure out exactly what bugs you the most, and then they hit you as hard as they can, over and over, right on the softest spots._

Travis, after a short time spent blustering and threatening in general, zeroed in on Mac with an uncanny sense of spite and began to tell jokes and ugly stories: a nonstop monologue of unfunny, crude, and malicious pieces, laced with gleeful sadism and racist hatred as well as misogyny and a callous contempt that went beyond insensitivity. MacGyver found himself mentally reciting computer coding algorithms and geometrical theorems in an attempt to block out the stream of verbal bile, and then tried to see how much dialogue from his favourite Westerns he could remember offhand, and translate into Spanish. He wished he could remember more Spanish.

Finally, after a particularly grotesque story about a retarded paraplegic, Don turned a glowering face to Mac.

"Y'got any more of that duct tape? I'll swear on a stack of Bibles that it was self-defense if'n you'll just shut him the hell up."

To his surprise, Mac found himself grinning. It felt strange, as if his face had almost forgotten how to smile. "I don't think duct tape's the right approach . . . but since we got a consensus, I think it's time for a change. Hey, Travis," Mac called. "Tell ya what. Your stories don't seem to be what your audience wants, so we're gonna try a ratings system."

"What the fuck you talkin' about, dweeb?"

Mac pulled out his Swiss Army knife and opened the large blade. "You seem awful fond of that fancy rifle of yours. Well, if you tell a joke or a story, and Don here doesn't like it, I'll cut a chunk outta that fancy polished gunstock of yours. And if I don't like it, I'll make a few nice deep scratches in that engraved receiver. And if neither of us likes it . . . you get my drift?"

Travis stared at him open-mouthed for a few moments, then slammed his jaw closed and glared.

"Much better." Mac put the knife away.

They had gone another mile, and Travis seemed to have sunk into a reliable sullen silence, before Mac caught Don's eye. "Mind if I ask you a question?"

Don shrugged.

"You seem to have a bit more sense than the others – how the heck did you get involved with these guys?"

The older man shrugged again, as best as he could with his arms lashed behind him. "Pastor Hunter – "

"'Pastor'?"

"Yup. He come out to our church and give a talk. An' he made sense, y'know? When he was talkin', it all made sense, though I can't make out now just why. He talked about the Zionist conspiracy, an' the Covenants, an' – " Don made a face. "I 'spose it all sounds stupid now, but – well, he sure believed it. Sometimes that makes something mean more'n it oughta."

"My grandpa told me once that the best con artists are the ones who can con themselves first."

"Sounds like you got a wise man fer a grandpa, son."

"I sure do."

"Well, Hunter said it wasn't about hatin' coloured folks, it was about takin' care of our own. That's somethin' I get. I get it real good. An' – I'd just lost my job. Hunter, he done talked about how they takes jobs away from white folks an' givin' 'em to niggers, an' well, I saw red. I don't think I was thinkin' too good for a while there."

"What kind of work did you do?" Mac asked.

"Hospital orderly."

"So when Hunter went after Ruth – "

A black look crossed Don's face like a stormcloud. "My wife's got kin out here, so I come out here lookin' for work – I thought mebbe Hunter could help me. He seemed like he took a real interest. So he calls me up t'other day, says he's gonna need help with an old lady what's just gittin' outta the hospital." Don turned his head and spat into the brush. "He dint tell me nothin' about how he's fetchin' her outta there hisself. I 'bout to fell over when I saw her, she looked so bad." After a long, painful moment, he added, "She gonna be okay?"

Mac was reluctant to give him the satisfaction, but he nodded. "I don't suppose you know if it was Hunter who arranged for her to get beaten up?"

Don stared at him. "_What_? Who the hell would do a thing like that?"

_Dang._ They had reached the junction of the main canyon and the ravine that led down from Hunter's cabin, and Mac had to concentrate on getting his two charges up the rough scramble to the top of the mesa.

_If it wasn't Hunter . . . who was it?_

- x -

Well before they reached the cabin, MacGyver was greeted by a hail and the welcome sight of a National Forest Service ranger hurrying towards him. He drew a deep breath of relief. The San Gabriels were such a hodgepodge of legal jurisdictions that he hadn't been able to tell Zak with confidence who to contact – but he'd noticed on his way in where the last ranger station was located. It was a habit he'd developed along with making note of the last gas station: either could be critical to survival.

"I'm Juan Gonzalez, the district ranger. You must be MacGyver."

"Yup." Mac shook the man's hand warmly. "Can you take charge of these two? There's a few more I left back in the bush – we need to retrieve 'em before the light fails."

"If you mean Ryan Smith, Jake Hunter, and Barry MacDonald, they're already in custody, along with Winston Hunter."

Mac grinned. "You found my Easter eggs, huh?" He looked in the direction of the cabin and back at Gonzalez. With his husky build, dark hair and coffee-coloured complexion, the ranger looked like a stock character from a Mexican _telenovela_, although he was clean-shaven. "Hunter give you any trouble?"

Gonzalez gave Mac a meaningful grin. "Zak Abrams was good enough to warn us what we were up against – so I sent in my deputy. He's white. Swedish, in fact. About seven feet tall. I mostly use him to scare kids on ATVs in no-ride zones. Hunter came quiet as a lamb – apparently he thought Jens was a deputy sheriff instead of a deputy ranger. We had him in cuffs before he found out the difference." The ranger looked thoughtfully at Mac's two captives. "Just as well. You wouldn't believe the arsenal they had in that cabin. It could have made an ugly standoff if it'd come to that."

The clearing by the cabin seemed crowded with vehicles, including two Forest Service jeeps; Mac saw with surprise that his own truck was amongst them. He and Zak had stashed it up an unused side track more than five miles back. Zak would know where to find it, of course, but only one other person had a spare key . . .

"Pete!" Mac's whoop of delight echoed across the clearing. "How'd you get up here?"

Pete had been standing talking to Zak; when he turned, his face beamed with a broad smile of relief. "I caught a ride in on the chopper."

"Chopper?"

Zak laughed. "Your Pete Thornton is one smooth operator. I made it down the hill to the ranger station, and called Phoenix while Gonzalez was contacting your emergency services. We had to get Ruth to safety, of course – and to a doctor – but I didn't want to have to shepherd her all the way down to the lowlands. No offense, but I did think you might possibly need a _little _bit of help. And if it didn't turn out that Thornton here had a helicopter on stand-by – "

MacGyver eyed Pete. "So just when did you scramble the chopper?"

"I had them ready to go starting about ninety minutes after you left – I didn't see any way you could possibly need it sooner than that." Pete frowned at MacGyver. "Are you all right? There's blood in your hair."

Mac put a hand up to his head – not carefully enough; he had forgotten about the crack on the head Buck had given him. He winced as his fingers found the gash above the cloth he'd tied around his head, and the blood-matted hair around it.

Pete looked over to the nearest Forest Service vehicle; Jens and Gonzalez were releasing the last two hunters from Mac's contrived fetters and loading them into the back seat of the jeep. Mac heard Travis yelp, and guessed he was getting the duct tape peeled, somewhat roughly, from his hairy wrists.

Mac didn't even try to feel sympathetic. Instead, he turned back to Pete. "Okay, so now we know where the leak was at Phoenix. Have you rounded up Rolf Schmidt yet?"

Pete shook his head, a disgusted expression on his face. "No sign of him at his house – and his neighbours haven't been of any help; he wasn't on good terms with them. A real loner. We've asked to have a warrant issued for him. Do you think he was the 'Professor'?"

Mac shook his head. "His grandson seemed totally confused when I asked – and he'd been pretty talkative at that point. _Darn_ it, Pete! How're we supposed to fight an enemy when they're so disorganised they don't even know themselves who's involved?" Mac suddenly looked Pete in the eye. "You still haven't told me what you're doing up here. I bet you didn't come up here for an Easter egg hunt."

"Well, no. I had intended to stay with the helicopter and escort Ruth back to LA – if only to make certain she didn't take it into her head to go charge a windmill en route. But we had an unexpected development – they got word to me just before I took off in the chopper. _After_ we knew that Ruth was safe."

"C'mon, Pete, spill. What happened?"

"Phoenix received a ransom demand."

Mac whistled. "How much are they askin' for?" _What's the going price for a feisty lady like that?_

"They aren't asking for money."

MacGyver frowned. "Then what – "

"They want some of the paintings."

- x -


	16. gesture study 5

_**gesture study**_

Darkness.

Mac had slipped into the warehouse through a side entrance, the locked door barely slowing him down. The blackness inside was more of an obstacle. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them wide, peering forward to make the best use of what little light seeped in through the cobweb-choked windows. The orange glare of the streetlights seemed to be swallowed by the interior darkness like a scattering of pale dust dropped into a deep pool of thick, stubborn sludge.

A different pale gleam escaped from a crack under a door ahead of him, at the end of the corridor: the entrance to the main loading dock.

With the hunt up in the mountains still fresh in his mind, MacGyver felt an odd sense of unease, although it wasn't the air that felt stifling. It was the city itself, with its closely-packed buildings and its morass of intense human activity. Sometimes it hit him like this, especially when he'd been away from so-called civilisation for an extended time, roughing it in the backwoods. The unnatural concrete landscape felt hard and lifeless, and the pressure of all those densely packed human lives gave him a weird sense of claustrophobia. It always took a while before the vibrancy of the life it held recaptured his sometimes reluctant affection. Los Angeles, with its dry, dirty air and its frantic pace, was the antithesis of the wild world he loved – but it fascinated him all the more because of it.

At the same time, his senses felt razor-sharp, as if the fresh mountain air had scrubbed his nerves clean. The interior of the warehouse smelled of dirt and engine grease, overlaid with dust and the acrid smell of the city itself. The sounds were clear and distinct, easily identified, from the incessant flow of traffic outside in the distance to the creak of the building itself as it settled. And, ahead, beyond the door, the murmur of voices.

So soon out of the forest, he was still the hunter, stepping forward lightly, hardly disturbing the fetid air as he passed. He eased open the door at the end of the corridor, slipping through into the loading dock softly enough to melt into a new set of shadows.

* * *


	17. Twelve: Art Deco

**Aftershocks**

_**Twelve: Art Deco**_



In the art lab, three paintings in ornate gilt frames had been set out on easels, lined up in a row. MacGyver hardly glanced at them as he and Willis entered. He went straight to where Laura was standing, talking earnestly to Gordie, gesturing decisively at the paintings. He touched her gently on the shoulder and raised an inquiring eyebrow when she turned to him. He had wondered how the renewed threat would affect her.

"You doin' okay?" She looked better – actually, she looked great: flawlessly groomed, cool and collected behind a thick shell of professional detachment.

She smiled, and the look in her eyes was grateful even through the steel shell. "I'm fine for now." There was a crisp edge to her voice, and Mac suddenly found himself thinking about a she-bear with cubs.

She pointed to the paintings in turn. "The ransom demand was very specific. Monet, _Sea Rocks at Etretat_; the Renoir bistro scene; and the Rembrandt portrait."

" 'Oldy-Moldy' himself," Mac murmured. He looked at the paintings closely; he'd been around the collection off and on for weeks, but hadn't really looked at the works much.

He'd liked the Monet from the start – it showed a rock formation that he remembered from a DXS mission to the Normandy coast. Every time he saw the seascape, he was drawn into it more deeply: twice already he'd caught himself looking at the painting and daydreaming about going sea kayaking. He could tell from the way the waves rippled and the sun glittered on the water that it would be a perfect day for it, the sun warm but not too hot on the skin, the occasional sea-spray cool and exhilarating.

The Renoir scene had its note of familiarity also – _I guess Parisian cafés haven't changed a whole lot in ninety years. Just the clothes._ There was a young, pretty dark-haired girl who made him think of his friend Penny, glancing sidelong at a moustached man who reminded him of Jack Dalton – slumped casually in a chair, obviously checking out the scene and the girls. Any minute, he'd say something that he thought was clever, and the girl would probably laugh at him, unimpressed. _Yeah. Not much has changed at all. But you wouldn't really get that from looking at a photograph._ Something in the scene – the light, maybe, or the feel of the air – told him that it was early on a summer evening; the day's heat was beginning to cool off, the city residents growing lively again after the torpor of a sultry afternoon.

But even in such company, it was the portrait in the centre that drew the attention. The colours were now bright and sharp, and the eyes of the long-dead sitter blazed with a pride that was tinged with reflection. The old man was bathed in a strong flood of light that entered from a window beside him, catching his face but leaving his surroundings indistinct, a murky past and an uncertain future. The light was the cool sunlight of autumn, so distinct MacGyver thought he could smell leaves burning. The grey-streaked beard and the lined face bore ineradicable marks of hardship and struggle; he was obviously an important man, but he'd had to fight for whatever status he'd gained, and now he felt the insidious weakness of old age creeping up on him, threatening what slender security he'd built for himself.

Mac let out his breath, suddenly noticing that he'd been holding it while he met the eyes of the portrait. _Whoa._

Gordie nodded. " 'Effin' wankers asked fer them an' no others – the three prize daubs of the lot."

"Laura, those are the three misfits. We talked about them – "

"Top of the class!" Gordie almost chortled. "The three bastards. Worth a packet to any shady dealer. An' if'n our blaggers can launder the provenance enough to sell 'em on the open market, they'll fetch ten times as much. That, my friends, is some serious swag."

"You think it's just that? It's just about the cash value – and the rest is a coincidence?" Mac demanded.

Gordie's mobile face was a study in pantomime. "The day that you hear me accept 'coincidence' as an effin' excuse for anything, you have my official permission to pack up my stinkin' carcass and ship it off to a knacker-house to be sold for dog meat."

Addie had just emerged from the office. "Don't be a divvy, Dad. By that time you'd be so long gone you'd poison the fuckin' dogs."

Gordie turned a stern eye on Addie. "I oughta smack you for that one. Hain't you learned yet to watch your effin' language? There's respectable folks present."

Mac glanced over to where Willis was working, and saw that the technical expert looking as bemused as he felt himself. Willis shook his head and turned back to his load of electronic equipment. Mac settled himself at the keyboard of the art lab's main computer workstation.



It wasn't long before they heard the lilting voice of Anjali Prajna, the current head of Phoenix' legal department. She swept into the art lab with Pete in tow, Zak Abramson following. She was wearing a crisply tailored business suit instead of a sari; Mac surmised that she had been dealing with the world outside Phoenix. Anjali found Western clothing dull, and never wore her 'court costume' unless she had to.

She was followed by Stephanie and Rafé; she must have accompanied them down to the police station, supporting them through the ordeal of picking Jake Hunter out of a line-up and giving their statements about the encounters at the music clubs. Stephanie was wearing her expensive preppie clothes for the first time in days. _Another costume._

Anjali strode over to MacGyver and made as if to cuff him. "There you are at last, you naughty boy! Why can't you stay out of trouble?"

He evaded her easily. "Are you just gonna give me another scolding?"

She glowered at him. "Would it do any more good than the last one?"

Mac grinned and shook his head.

"At least we did not have to post bail for you again. But Mac, the next time you go up into the mountains, you should try meditation instead of running around in the woods chasing Nazis. Sit under a tree and contemplate the wheel of life. It will be much more tranquil for everybody."

Zak was looking at them with consternation. Mac gave him a grin and turned back to Anjali.

"I gotta ask. Did you _really_ call me MacLiability?"

"Did Ryan Smith tell you that?" She scowled melodramatically. "That silly boy never did have any sense of humour at all. Pete, we must change our rules. From now on, we must never hire any more lawyers unless they have a sense of humour."

Pete raised an eyebrow. "That could be difficult."

Mac glanced over at Rafé; Stephanie hadn't left his side, and Addie had abandoned her work and bustled over to him. "Excuse me." He hurried over to the trio and touched Rafé on the arm. "You okay?"

Rafé gave him a guarded look. "Sure, man. I'm cool. Why you think I'd be anything else?"

"Well, let's see – you just got back from the cop shop, where you spent the last couple of hours giving evidence _against_ someone – a white guy, to boot."

Rafé shrugged, but looked around as if he was checking out a exit route. "Yeah. So what?"

"You tell me. It's a long way from what you grew up expecting."

Rafé started to shrug again, and Addie punched his arm. "Ballocks, mate. We all know it was a friggin' nightmare. But you did it." She turned back to MacGyver, her eyes shining. Mac noticed that Stephanie wasn't just standing close to Rafé; she was holding his hand tightly, her fingers interlaced with his.

_Okaaay . . . but she better not just be collecting him as a trophy to cheese off her parents._

Pete was surveying the art lab with an air of expectation. Mac had seen that look before: Pete could act on the spur of the moment when he needed to, but he was at his best when he had time to make plans, decide on tactics, and marshal his troops. Back when they'd both been with the DXS, Mac had always been able to depend on Pete in the field. His operations always ran smoothly – until the inevitable moment when something unforeseen messed things up – and when it did, Pete's preparations meant the snafu didn't have to be fatal. He'd never been able to let go of wanting to run operations, not just oversee them from the lofty distance of a director's office; and Mac had never stopped appreciating his touch.

"Everything set?" Pete asked.

Willis looked up and nodded. "Just about. We're just waiting for him to call back with his instructions about the ransom."

Zak frowned. "What makes you so sure they'll call back at all? Ruth is safe and your fine police force have most of the bastards in custody. They'd have to be damned idiots not to know by now that something's gone wrong."

Pete nodded. "Yes, it's a long shot. But the ransom call came in late afternoon – and by that time, you and Mac were already up at the cabin. There's no phone up there, and we don't think anyone left after you got Ruth out and before you came back with the cavalry. Even if they were trying to stay in touch, I don't think they could have. The police have agreed to keep the arrests quiet for as long as they can – and the hospital is still writhing with embarrassment over the entire incident. They'd have agreed to anything, and they're already specialists in discretion."

"So what's all this in aid of? What are you after?"

"The Professor," Mac answered, his voice hard and flat. His eyes were smoky with unspoken anger.

"Is that Schmidt, then? Do you think it's the same person?"

"No way of knowing," Willis replied. "But it doesn't seem likely. Schmidt emigrated here from Germany in 1958, so he's old enough to have been a Nazi – but I can't find anything to suggest why anyone would call him a 'Professor'.

"Ryan didn't seem to know anything about it either," MacGyver remarked, "and I'm pretty sure he wasn't lying just at that moment."

Willis gave Mac a doubtful look as he continued. "Schmidt wasn't a teacher or an academic of any kind. He worked in shipping and logistics – he retired about five years ago from Koch International Freight Services."

Mac frowned. "Just at a wild guess, I don't suppose they've got a warehouse down on East Olympic Boulevard?"

Willis looked thoughtful. "I can find out easily enough. You're thinking of the one where they wanted to meet Dexter, right?"

"Bingo. If it's the same guy, he'd know the place – he'd know how to get in, even if he didn't work there any more."

Zak shrugged. "If it's the warehouse I think you mean, it's not that hard. You can break into it with a toothpick and a stern expression."

Mac gave him a long-suffering look. "That's one of the places you tailed me, right?"

"Eventually, yes. But you got away from me with that oblique approach, and by the time I caught up with you, you'd been and gone. You can be very exasperating to keep up with."

"I'll try to do better next time." Mac's voice oozed sweet acid.

Pete was pacing around the lab. "We could have the police check the place out . . . but we don't want to spook him. He could call at any time – and if he follows his usual pattern, it'll be a short call, made from a pay phone, in a neighbourhood where no-one will admit to noticing anything."

"Who took the first call?" Mac asked. He had returned to the computer and was skimming through the files, his eyes darting as he hunted through the data.

"Keiko was on the switchboard," Willis answered. "She had the sense to route it to Helen, and Pete took it from there. The guy introduced himself as 'Mr. Smith'. Can you believe it? Helen's taken over the switchboard for tonight – I don't think anyone had the nerve to tell her no."

Pete nodded distractedly. "She'll recognise his voice, no matter how much he disguises it." He had walked over to stand next to Laura, and was surveying the three paintings. Something in his expression seemed to be ask – no, to demand – that they prove they were worth so much trouble, so much threat to human life. The eyes of Rembrandt's long-dead subject returned Pete's look with nonchalant dignity; the gaudy Renoir figures ignored him.

Gordie looked at the Renoir and shook his head dourly. "I'm an eejit, I am. An 'effin' eejit. Skin me an' use me hide for bootsoles, I did not see that one coming. And I shoulda."

"It'll be okay, Gordie," Laura said firmly. "We'll deal."

"We will that. In more ways than one."

The beep of the intercom, followed by Helen's calm voice, cast a breathless silence over the lab.

"Mr. Thornton? 'Mr. Smith' is on the line. I'm putting him through – but he's asking for Dr. Sandburg, not for you."

"Is he now?" Pete's face set into granite lines.

The voice was muffled, but the German accent was unmistakable. "I am speaking to Dr. Sandburg, yes?"

"This is Pete Thornton. I'm here with Dr. Sandburg."

"Are you, Herr Thornton? Then I suggest you go somewhere else. I am not interested in talking to you tonight."

Pete persisted. "I insist that you let me talk to Ruth Collins. How do I know that she's still alive?"

"You are not in a good place to insist, Herr Thornton."

Pete glanced over at MacGyver, raising an eyebrow. Mac nodded: he recognised the voice. It was the same voice he'd heard the night he'd answered the pager summons – the voice that had sent him to the warehouse where Hunter's men had been waiting.

"Now. I will talk to Laura Sandburg and no-one else. You are recording this call, yes? You will turn off your equipment. _Now_."

"You just wait a minute – " Pete blustered. He glanced at Willis and mouthed _What now?_

"Your Frau Collins is a very remarkable woman," 'Smith' said calmly. "But she is very old. Her health is not so good. It will be much better when she is where a doctor can look after her. You want to see her alive again, yes?"

_He's real good at bluffing,_ MacGyver thought. _I wouldn't want to play poker with him._

Pete sighed audibly. "All right, you win. Here's Dr. Sandburg."

"Wait, Herr Thornton. One last thing. If you do not turn off your telephone recorder _this minute_, I will ring off and you will not hear from me again."

Pete looked at MacGyver and Willis, almost in desperation. Mac had quickly tapped out a few words on his keyboard; now he turned his screen to face Pete. _Play along: give him anything._

"All right!" Pete said hurriedly. "Just one moment – "

Mac had slipped noiselessly out of his chair, pulled out his knife, and opened the large blade partway; now he lifted one of the phone handsets as Willis hit the button to make it an active line on the call. Mac held the knife close to the mouthpiece and nudged the blade with his thumb so that it snapped closed with a loud metallic click. He set the handset down softly.

"Much better," Smith declared. "Now put Laura Sandburg on the line, and run away."

Laura licked her lips and swallowed nervously as she bent over the speaker mike for the phone. Mac met her eyes and tried to smile reassuringly, tried to will confidence into her.

"This is Dr. Sandburg. We – I – I was given your demands earlier. We've retrieved the three paintings from the vault." She swallowed again. "Why do you need to talk to me?"

"Because it is you who will bring them to me."

"_What_? Why?"

Mac looked over at Pete in alarm, half rising from his chair; Pete put a finger to his lips and waved him down. Smith was still issuing orders.

"Because I tell you to. Do you have pen and paper there? Write down this address – you will bring the paintings there, now. Be there in one hour."

"What about Ruth Collins?" Laura demanded.

Smith ignored the question. "There is a phone booth there; you will wait for my call. I will tell you then where to meet me."

Mac had been typing; he caught Laura's eye and gestured towards his screen. _Too heavy. Say you need help._

Laura nodded and licked her lips again. "You're crazy! I can't carry all three paintings by myself – they're too large and awkward!"

"Don't be stupid." Smith's voice was curt. "It's just canvas and paint. Roll them up."

"If you think that I'm going to risk damage to these canvases by taking them off their stretchers, you're not just a criminal. You're insane."

"You care so much about paintings that are going away? They are not even yours. The real owners died half a century ago."

"They aren't yours, either." Laura's eyes were suddenly blazing with fury. "They belong to the world. We're just their caretakers, and I will _not_ risk damaging them. If _you_ don't give a damn about posterity, you must at least care about what will happen to their market value if they're damaged."

Mac and Pete had exchanged glances again – this time in surprise. _way to go, Laura _Mac typed.

"Very well!" Smith's accent grew thicker as he grumbled. "You will bring that blonde girl who works with you. She can help carry."

"Veronica?"

"No! The young girl. Stephanie."

Laura's face went white, and she looked in horror over to where Stephanie was standing. The girl's face was a study in astonishment.

Laura found her voice. "Absolutely_ not_. I won't – you can't drag her into this – " She was cut off by the click of the receiver and the harsh buzz of the dial tone.

Pete hurried over to Laura. "Dr. Sandburg – I had no idea he'd make that kind of demand on you. Of course, you can't – "

She cut him off with a raised hand. "Pete, I - I'm grateful for the concern. Now stop it. At least we're still a few steps ahead of him – he _doesn't_ know that Ruth is safe."

MacGyver was frowning. "It's what we hoped for – but talk about a gaping hole in their communications." At the same time, he was studying Laura. "We've gotta act fast, before they find the hole and patch it. Can you do this?"

Laura's face was pale, but she still had the air of firm confidence that had returned to her when she'd snapped at Smith. Mac felt a glow of delight at the change. She nodded once, decisively. "I don't know why he asked for me, but if that's what it takes . . . " Her eyes went to Stephanie.

The interns had drawn close together, Addie and Rafé flanking their new focus of concern. _Second nature for them by now_, Mac thought. He thought of the last study he'd done of wolves in the wild, remembered watching them gather in support of a vulnerable packmate.

Stephanie was looking at Pete, but she seemed to be the only one who didn't look frightened or worried. She squeezed Addie's hand and patted Rafé's shoulder, then stepped away from the group and stood face to face with Pete.

"Mr. Thornton. I don't know why he asked for me either – unless maybe he figures Laura and I just aren't scary – but like she said, if that's what it takes . . . " Her face suddenly creased with real anxiety. "_Please_ let me do this! Don't just say 'no' 'cause you think you should! I can do it – " Her chin suddenly stiffened. In Mac's eyes, she abruptly grew several years older, and his heart sank – watching that sudden metamorphosis reminded him too keenly of some of the younger friends he'd made on trips abroad, kids who had grown up too fast, too young. Stephanie was asking for something they'd have gladly done without.

Pete drew a deep breath and puffed his cheeks out in a sigh. "Ms. Carmichael, that's a generous offer. And I know it's a heartfelt one. But . . . "

Rafé interrupted him, abruptly looming up beside Stephanie. "God damn it, this is fuckin' nuts! Mr. Thornton, you ain't gonna let the women do this, are you? It too fuckin' dangerous, man!"

Mac broke in quickly. "Rafé, _can_ it. Yeah, our bad guy's probably a sexist pig. Don't you turn into one too."

"MacGyver, don' tell me you down with this!"

"Doesn't matter if I like it or not. But if you try to pull a protective act right now, Stephanie's probably gonna hand you your head on a platter." Mac glanced at Laura and Addie. "And she'll have plenty of help."

Rafé hunched his shoulders and gave Mac a sullen look. "Last month – when you was gettin' in my face 'bout my 'macho crap' – this is what you meant, huh?"

"Yup."

The tense moment that followed was suddenly broken by Willis, who had been studying the paintings with a puzzled frown, oblivious to the debate. Now he broke the uneasy silence. "I don't get it. How come he's asking for these three? Aren't the older paintings worth more?"

Laura ran a distracted hand through her hair. "I guess you might think so – but no. The art market can be very peculiar. There aren't all that many true Old Masters outside museums – except for the ones that used to be in museums, and have been stolen. But they don't exactly go on the market after that." She was staring at the Renoir as she spoke, but hardly seemed to see it. "Mostly, the kind of collectors who really bid up the prices are the ones who want the more modern works. Anything from the Impressionists onwards – Van Gogh and Picasso are the biggest of all, along with Klimt."

"We don't have any of those, do we?"

"No. Ironically enough, both painters were blacklisted by Hitler; not even Goering dared collect them. When the Nazis got hold of their works, they mostly sold them to complicit art dealers outside the Reich." Laura shook her head. "Even today, there are plenty of collectors – wealthy businessmen – who are only interested in art as an investment." Her face showed clearly what she thought of that. "They really want paintings that will skyrocket in value. The pressure they put on the art market pushes the prices up even further – which also makes stealing the works more worthwhile."

The beep of the internal intercom startled the people in the art lab. Willis was the first to respond, punching the appropriate button to place the caller on speakerphone. "What's up?"

"Willis?" They all heard the rich tones of Raj, one of the brighter lights on Willis' technical staff. "Are you there?"

"Yes, of course. What's up?"

"We have had a call, Willis. It just came in! You told me to keep an eye on it – it's from the pager! Dexter's pager!"

Willis and Mac looked at each other.

"Aw, _man_."




	18. Thirteen: Photorealism

**Aftershocks**

**_Thirteen: Photorealism_**



_There's a big difference between 'dumb' and 'naïve'. Dexter isn't dumb – just the opposite – but he's naïve. When I returned the call, 'Smith' offered me fifty thousand dollars to wipe the files – everything from Frau Brandenburg's files, and everything we had on the art collection – from the Phoenix computers. Then he upped it to a hundred thousand if I could promise it would be done that same night._

_I said yes, of course. And since Dexter's naïve, I didn't try to put Smith on the spot by asking for payment details. I was pretty sure that he didn't ever plan on paying up; but with the files destroyed, he'd have what he wanted, and he wasn't about to worry over Dexter's future. I did try to ask about the Professor, but I didn't get anywhere._

_Smith wasn't naïve, but he was kinda dumb. He never mentioned destroying the backups as well, and he seemed to think that the files only existed in the computer._

_Stephanie's pretty naïve, too – at that age, it's a tragedy for a kid to be anything else – but she's not dumb either. She found an argument for every one of Pete's objections to her going with Laura – and every one of Laura's. She even pointed out that the fine print on the contract she'd signed with Phoenix took care of the legalities, and she'd already been over 18 the day she signed it. Anjali isn't dumb or naïve in any way, and I could see her smirking over that one. Who'd've thought Stephanie would actually read the whole thing?_

_But she was naïve about the 'Commando Pete' cartoons – it really hadn't occurred to her that every one of them had ended up on Pete's desk. She turned bright scarlet when he mentioned them, and then got even more flustered when he told her how much he liked them._

_It made me wonder about those teachers of hers. It isn't just lawyers who need a sense of humour._



It _was_ the same warehouse. Laura and Stephanie had been instructed to bring the paintings around by the loading dock entrance; and as Zak had said, it was easy enough to break in by the side door.

The loading dock was nearly empty, but the darkness itself provided some cover; MacGyver slipped in through the hallway door and stole softly over to where a forklift bulked in the shadows. At the far end, near the main doors, he could see the two women, pinned down in the glaring circle of light from a high-powered industrial-grade flashlight. Mac didn't look directly at them – he needed to keep his eyes attuned to the darkness – but he saw well enough with his peripheral vision to make out the three parcels they were carrying, wrapped up neatly in brown paper and string, the size and bulk making them awkward to handle.

The man holding the flashlight was a tall, dim figure; the glow from the light caught at the fringes of a disordered shock of white hair. He was looking right at Laura and Stephanie. _That's pretty dumb, too – he won't be able to see anything unless he's shining the light right at it._

It _was_ Rolf Schmidt; Mac could see enough of his face to be sure. Willis had found a photograph dating from his retirement in 1984, although Schmidt's hair was whiter now and his face was craggier. One gnarled hand held the flashlight; the other held a .38 caliber revolver.

Laura was squinting into the light, holding up a hand to try to shield her eyes. "We've brought the paintings. Where's Ruth Collins?"

"All in good time." The voice, with its heavy German accent, was unmistakable: the same voice from the phone calls. "You will unwrap them. I must see that you are not trying to cheat me."

Grumbling and complaint from Stephanie, softly shushed by Laura as they complied. Mac took advantage of the distraction to study his surroundings more closely. He froze in place where he was, hiding behind the tire of the fork lift.

Cody was crouched less than ten feet away from him, still oblivious.

MacGyver had chosen the side of the forklift for his cover; Cody was watching the scene from behind the end of the vehicle. If Mac had approached from a slightly different angle, he'd have practically tripped over the skinhead.

Even in the shadows, here behind where Schmidt stood with his flashlight, Mac could see the gun in Cody's hand. He could also see three different ways to take the kid out . . . and he couldn't use any of them.

_Is he here on his own? Or playing rear guard for Schmidt?_ Cody was focused on the scene at the end of the loading dock, where Schmidt's flashlight showed the two women unwrapping the paintings. With his military jacket and boots and the buzz-cut hair, Cody looked like an Army grunt on recon – except that any sentry who left his back that wide open would be fair game.

_You'd think a kid that obsessed with playing soldier would have a clue about surveillance – and he's looking right at the brightest-lit part of the room; so his night sight's blown also._ It was tempting to imagine slipping a few feet closer and taking the gun away. _Tag, you little twerp._ Mac had had buddies in Vietnam who would have made a truly memorable object lesson out of this kind of opportunity.

_And I have to stay here and just keep watch._

Laura and Stephanie had finished their unwrapping. Mac could see Schmidt's body language clearly enough in the backwash from the light: the old man had leaned forward as the paintings were uncovered, and then settled back on his heels, nodding with satisfaction, even though there was no way the women could have seen his expression with the light blinding them if they looked at him. _That's why he's doing it like this – he doesn't want to be recognised. They oughta be safe as long as he doesn't think anyone got a good look at him._

Laura kept her gaze mostly on the paintings, but Stephanie was glancing nervously around, trying not to look into the light. The rest of the room must have been a solid mass of darkness to her, but Cody responded unconsciously as her unseeing gaze swept past his hiding place; he, too, glanced around uneasily. He frowned and looked again in MacGyver's direction, peering forward intently, his eyes straining against the gloom.

_Dang it!!_

When Cody came around the corner of the forklift, Mac was ready. Cody came gun-first, leading with his right hand; MacGyver grabbed his wrist and slammed the hand against the metal frame of the vehicle. Cody screeched with pain – although Mac was pretty sure he hadn't actually broken any bones – and the gun went clattering off into the shadows.

_So much for the hardware – but now I've got a cranky skinhead to deal with . . . and I have to let him win._

Caught off guard, Cody was wide open; Mac had to resist the urge to nail him on his unprotected pugnacious jaw. Instead, he backhanded Cody across the face – painful, demeaning, but nothing that would end the fight or even tilt it in Mac's favour. _Can't make it too easy._

He'd seen what Cody held in his other hand – a large, heavy, industrial-grade flashlight. _That's gonna hurt . . ._

It did. Mac yelped when the first blow connected with the arms he'd thrown up to shield his face and head. Cody pummeled MacGyver wildly with the flashlight, his blows brutal but unscientific. Mac was grateful; an experienced fighter would have switched the bludgeon back to his dominant hand, bruised or not, and then backed Mac against the fork lift and done some real damage. Instead, the blows that rained down landed mostly on the arm and shoulder muscles: painful but not debilitating.

When Cody finally noticed Mac had left himself open to a gut punch, Mac rolled with the blow and let himself go down. He continued the roll to put a few extra feet between himself and Cody's combat boots; he didn't want to give the kid an opening for kicking. He lay still.

Cody switched the flashlight to his right hand, swore at the pain from his battered fingers, and pinned Mac's prone form with the bright glare of the beam.

Schmidt's voice echoed from the shadows, where Mac's light-dazzled sight could no longer penetrate. "What has happened? Who is that?"

"_Mein_ _Obersturmführer_ – it's Dexter! Wait, no . . . "

_Huh. He didn't call him 'Professor' – guess that settles it._ Mac blinked up at Cody, now a dim silhouette behind the light. "The name's MacGyver." He pitched his voice low, well away from the tones of Dexter's nasal whine. "How the heck do you know Dexter?"

He could see Cody peering at him. "You sure look a lot like him . . . "

"He's my cousin." Mac sat up. "Unfortunately." He looked over to where Laura and Stephanie were still standing; they had frozen in place when the scuffle broke out. "Stephanie, is this guy one of the skinheads you said were harassing you?"

The girl's reply was a nervous squeak; she had to clear her throat and try again. "Um, yeah, I think so – I can't really see his face. Are you all right, Mr. MacGyver?"

"So Dexter's been gettin' chummy with skinheads?" Mac raised his hand, trying to screen his eyes from the worst of the glare. "Man, I _told_ Pete we were wastin' our time on him."

Cody had retrieved his gun; now he brandished it, his eyes glittering with malice. "You get your ass over there with the women. So you're from Phoenix too, huh?"

MacGyver looked carefully at Laura and Stephanie as he joined them; they both looked frightened but determined. He gave Stephanie a quick hug and then turned towards the shadowed figure of Schmidt, one arm around the shoulders of each woman. "What're you gonna do with us?"

"We only need one person to help carry the paintings to the car. The girl will do."

Laura took a half-step forward, her fists clenching. "No! You leave her out of this! You shouldn't have involved her in the first place."

"Relax, Dr. Sandburg." Schmidt sounded amused. "I would never harm such a fine young Aryan girl. Once we have the paintings, she is free to go – she can even bring someone to come free you. Of course, it is a long walk to the nearest phone. You will have to be patient."

"Free us?" Mac asked.

Keys jangled in Schmidt's hand; he tossed them to Cody. "Lock them up in one of the offices. Make sure the man won't cause any trouble – but no shooting. Do you hear me? Not unless they make it necessary."



The office Cody took them to was small and cramped, the interior not fully finished; an exposed water pipe spanned the width of the narrow space overhead. Cody glanced at it, grinned mirthlessly, and pulled a set of handcuffs out of one pocket. He tossed them to MacGyver and indicated the pipe. Mac wondered briefly whether Laura would get the same treatment, but Cody simply ordered her into a corner of the office, keeping most of his attention fixed on Mac.

Mac seethed inwardly. _Guess he doesn't think she's a threat – did he get his macho crap along with the Nazi schtick, or pick it up on its own?_ He didn't have to feign reluctance as he lifted his arms up over his head on each side of the pipe and snapped the cuffs on his own wrists, leaving the chain looped over the pipe.

Cody wasn't entirely careless or clueless; as soon as he thought MacGyver was secure, he checked to make sure the cuffs were firmly latched. In the process, he left himself open to several possible counterattacks; Mac was especially tempted by the clear shot he had at planting a hard sidewinder kick in the young man's gut. An alternate target, slightly lower, was even more tempting.

Instead, he braced for Cody's next move, inevitable and predictable. Cody, in glee at having a supposedly helpless target, backhanded Mac viciously across the face. Mac rolled with the blow as best as he could, but it wasn't much. He turned his head back and met the younger man's eyes steadily, uncowed.

Cody seemed to flinch inwardly. He lifted the gun as if to club Mac with it; Mac sucked in his breath and braced himself again, his eyes burning harder into Cody's. But Laura had had enough; she advanced on Cody, her eyes blazing, and seized his upraised arm.

"_Stop it_! Leave him alone!"

MacGyver hadn't seen her moving, or he would have called out to her not to intervene. Cody backhanded her in turn, knocking her against the desk. With that blow, he seemed to notice his bruised right hand; he yelped and massaged his knuckles, turning away from Mac to glare at Laura.

At that, Mac forgot all his good intentions of playing it cool. He didn't even think about what he was doing as he locked the fingers of both hands together so that he was swinging from the pipe, and lashed out with both feet. One foot caught Cody in the small of the back, over the kidneys, and the other hit him solidly just under the shoulderblade on the right side. Mac knew he'd caught the right spot when Cody yelped again, louder, and stiffened up as if he'd been hit with an electrical jolt. The gun dropped from his hand, and Mac just managed to reach it with his foot, shuffle it like a soccer ball, and kick it out the door into the shadowed hallway.

"Laura – " Mac jerked his head, indicating she should slip behind him; she ducked out of Cody's reach and retreated into the corner behind where MacGyver hung from the pipe.

Mac met Cody's eyes again, a hard feral stare. He was poised on tiptoe, his knees slightly flexed, steadying himself with his hands clasped above the pipe. He could see Cody's mind working, realising how much of the tiny, cramped space Mac could reach with his next kick.

Cody's eyes shifted towards the hallway, where the gun lay somewhere in the darkness.

In the breathless silence, they could hear Schmidt's querulous voice.

"_Cody_! What is taking you so long? Hurry up, you lazy dog."

Cody's jaw tightened; he glanced from the hallway back to MacGyver, and their eyes locked once more. _Ever seen what happens to dogs when they tangle with a wolf? Mostly wolves have more sense . . . they know how to let go of a fight. But show any weakness to a wild dog, and you're fresh meat._

Mac held the eye contact as Cody stepped back towards the doorway, well out of range of Mac's long legs. He held his breath to see if Cody was going to fetch the gun and come back; but the parting shot was delivered with a smirk instead.

"That dweeby cousin of yours? Dexter? You're right, asshole. You _have_ been wasting your time."

The click of the door locking was followed by the thump of Cody's bootsteps retreating down the hallway. Mac let out an exasperated sigh and dropped back to his feet, letting his shoulders sag as much as he could.

"I'm gettin' _real_ tired of lettin' that kid win."

Laura stared at him in astonishment. " '_Letting_' him . . . ?"

"Well, yeah." Mac looked up at his cuffed hands and flexed his fingers, wincing slightly. The metal cuffs had dug into his wrists when he'd swung from the pipe. "Just between you and me, I've had it." He looked at her with concern. "You okay?"

She shook her head in bewilderment. "_Mac_ . . . am _I_ okay?!?"

"Well, are you?"

Laura drew a deep, slow breath. "Uh – yes. I think I am. I'm not scared any more. I'm furious." She touched her bruised cheek with careful fingers. "I don't know why, but it's an improvement."

"Good," Mac said cheerfully. "Now let's get outta here, okay?"

Laura gave him a meaningful look. He grinned back at her. "My knife's in my right-hand pocket. Do me a favour and get it out for me, willya?"

She reached up on tiptoe to place it in his hand and watched with fascination as he located the reamer blade by touch, opened it, and set to work on the locks. "What if I hadn't been in here to help?"

"This pipe's pretty strong as far as it goes," Mac replied absently, "but it wasn't designed to hold up against heavy weights. But it would've make a real mess if I'd had to break it – it's part of the sprinkler system, and it probably doesn't have a shut-off valve."

Mac was free of the handcuffs and working on the lock of the office door when he heard a light step outside. He flashed a grin over his shoulder at Laura and stepped back from the door. A moment later, it was pushed open and Stephanie peered in.

"Dr. Sandburg? MacGyver? Oh my god, you're all right – " Stephanie flew across the room and hugged them both indiscriminately. "How come you're still in here? The door wasn't locked."

Laura was holding Stephanie tightly, ruffling her hair, reassuring herself that the girl wasn't hurt. She laughed unsteadily. "It was up until a moment ago, honey."

Stephanie glanced over at Mac and flushed. "Oh. I guess you already rescued yourselves, then . . . " She looked crestfallen.

"You did great, Stephanie," Mac said warmly. "How'd you get back inside so quick?"

"I found a side door that wasn't locked. Is that where you got in?"

"Well, yeah, although it was locked when I first got here."

Stephanie flushed deeper. "It's not _fair_. I had to let them get a_way_, and now it turns out you didn't even need me – Mr. MacGyver, would you please teach me how to pick locks?"

Mac raised an eyebrow. "You planning on joining Pete's Commandos? C'mon. Willis will be wondering what's takin' us so long."



The van was plain white, unmarked, dirt-spattered and nondescript. Inside, it was a mad scientist's lair of electronic equipment. Stephanie had been briefly disappointed that there wasn't room in the van for her; but she brightened up when she learned that, instead, she was to ride in one of the accompanying unmarked LAPD cruisers. When she learned it was the same one Pete was riding in, she almost glowed. Rafé hadn't been too happy either, but given the choice between riding in a police car and staying at Phoenix – or, worse, being sent home – he had swallowed his antipathy.

The mad scientist in the van was only mildly annoyed at the delay; but then, Willis wasn't known for his sense of time passing. He was bent over the equipment, tending it with patient attention, and barely glanced up as Mac and Laura scrambled in.

"Everything set? Mission accomplished?"

"Pretty much – the bad guys have the paintings, and nobody got shot," MacGyver replied. He gestured towards the large circular scope in front of Willis, already lit up and showing a large, bright dot. "And why bother to ask, genius? You're already tracking them."

"Just making sure, Mr. Unexpected MacComplications." Willis studied the bruises on Mac's face, glanced at Laura, and bit his lip. "Yeah. Well, better you than me, Mac. I think."

From the front passenger seat, Addie was craning her neck, trying to see the controls that Willis and MacGyver were studying. She had made a face and swallowed nervously at the sight of Mac's bruised face, but she didn't comment on it. Instead, she pointed at the scope.

"I don't get it. I know you put those thingummies in the paintings, but what the fuck did you call them again? Jeepy something?"

"GPS," Mac replied. "It stands for 'Global Positioning System."

"Right-o. I had one of those, but the wheels fell off."

"Give it a few more years and everyone will have them," Willis murmured absently. "It's pretty much been restricted to military use so far, but the civilian applications are endless. Once they finish launching all the satellites in the new system – the technology's getting more reliable every year, and less bulky – "

Zak, in the driver's seat, had also twisted himself around and was looking with fascination at the scope. "And I thought the whole James Bond gadget business was just wishful thinking."

"The units are still too bulky for some purposes," Mac broke in. "If the picture frames hadn't been so large, we wouldn't have been able to fit them in." He wrapped an arm around Laura and gave her a strong squeeze. "I had a real bad moment back in the lab when Schmidt started talking about taking the paintings out of their frames. You did great with that one: Dr. Sandburg saves the day."

Laura smiled a thin, slightly nervous smile. Her eye had caught Addie's when MacGyver had embraced her. The girl looked briefly wistful, then shrugged and attempted an air of cool nonchalance.

The two-way crackled, and they heard Pete's voice. "All right, everyone. We're ready to go. Willis, are you getting the signals?"

"Bright and clear, Pete. Heading northeast on Soto Street."

"Right. Remember, everyone. Nice and slow – we've got all the time we need."

Mac grinned in the darkness of the van. _Commando Pete rides again._

Laura watched MacGyver as he bent over the scope, murmuring occasional instructions into the mike of the headset he had donned once he'd settled in. Willis was monitoring the equipment and correlating the signals to a street map of greater Los Angeles, calling out directions to Zak as needed; Mac relayed them to the police were dispersed in a rough net around the target. The light from the scope picked out Mac's face in sharp highlights and shadows, and glinted on Willis' glasses; they looked like boys hunched over a video game.

"Huh. Better hang on, Pete – the movement's stopped. I don't think it's another traffic light; there was a sideways turn first. It looks like they've parked somewhere – no, wait, they're moving again."

"Mac," Willis' voice held a note of alarm. "The signals are separating."

"Didja hear that, Pete?"

Pete's voice crackled over the two-way. "Can you tell which one is which?"

"Sure. The Rembrandt just turned south – the other two are headed northeast on Huntingdon."

"Time to split up, boys," Pete announced. "MacGyver, you and Willis keep after the Renoir and the Monet." There was an indistinct murmur as Pete consulted with the police captain in charge of the police contingent. "Wyatt's going with you; Ramirez and Blake will stay with us."

"What if we can't keep them all in range?" Laura asked.

Willis interrupted. "The Rembrandt has stopped moving again." He peered at the scope as Mac gave Pete the location.

"Good," said Pete. "I think we've got the Professor cornered at last."

* * *


	19. Fourteen: Dadaist

**Aftershocks**

**Fourteen: Dadaist**



Schmidt's face was a picture of surprise when he opened the hall door to his modest third-floor room at the Santa Anita Hotel and found himself facing two uniformed LAPD officers, warrant in hand. His face turned purple when he saw MacGyver and Laura were with the police. Mac had wondered if he would put up a fight, but one look at Officer Wyatt was enough to intimidate any sane person of ordinary size. Mac suspected the man had played pro football before joining the police force. _Or from the look of him, he might've juggled railroad cars. I wonder if Schmidt's a racist as well as a Nazi? It's gotta rankle._

As they had expected, there was no sign of the Rembrandt, but Schmidt hadn't even attempted to hide the other two paintings. His gun was lying in plain sight on the bedside table, far out of reach even if he'd decided to use it; and there had been plenty of time to check and confirm that he had no permit for it.

Wyatt would not allow Laura or Mac into the room until he and his partner, Rosenthal, had checked the premises. Cody was nowhere to be found, and Schmidt scowled and clammed up when asked about him. Laura examined the paintings with a cool, professional demeanor.

"Are you certain of the identification, Dr. Sandburg?" Wyatt asked formally.

"Absolutely. This is the Renoir that was extorted from the Phoenix Foundation by this man and his confederates; and this is the replica Monet."

Schmidt had sunk into a chair, his shoulders set with stubborn hauteur as the arrest was proceeding; now he shot to his feet. "The _**what**_?!"

MacGyver smirked at him. "This one's a ringer, Rolf. The real Monet never left the Phoenix vault. We figured the prize paintings were gonna get targeted . . . and our restoration expert comes from a long line of art forgers."

Gordie had grumbled at length about the amount of time the forgery project had taken from his restoration work, but he had never managed to be convincing. He hadn't been able to hide his delight at the opportunity to exercise a skill that rarely got much serious practice – at least, not officially.

Schmidt was staring at the ersatz Monet. "It can't be . . . "

"Deal with it, buddy. It is. You swallowed a fake and never even knew the difference."

"Both fakes . . . "

"Well, no," Mac said breezily. "The Renoir's the real thing. Made us pretty nervous, letting it out of our sight, even with the GPS tracker."

" 'Tracker'?"

"Yup. Ruth Collins is safe, by the way – this little exercise was just a handy way of rounding up the rest of you guys."

"The Rembrandt – that is a fake too?" Schmidt looked ashen.

"Sure is. The original hasn't even been cleaned yet – Gordie kinda had to guess at what it was gonna look like."

"And you – you are tracking that one, also?"

"Yup," MacGyver said airily. "The Professor took that one, didn't he? Claimed the best for himself? You do know it's worth more than all the others put together, right?" Mac had no idea of the Rembrandt's actual value, but he saw the old man's eyes tighten and hoped he had hit a nerve. He flashed an annoying, condescending grin. "You're lucky he let you keep these two."

"_Lucky_ . . . " Schmidt was still staring at the paintings.

"So where's Cody? Did he go off with the Professor?"

Schmidt's thin lips pressed tightly together, and the lines in his weathered face grew deeper as if he had drawn an opaque veil of obstinacy over his features.

Mac pressed on as if he hadn't noticed. "Back in the warehouse, Cody called you '_Obersturmführer_' – that's an SS rank. Were you in the SS?"

The only answer, a stubborn silence, surprised no-one.

"You're not going to get him to admit to it, even if he was," Zak said blandly. "Not when admission is tantamount to confessing to war crimes." He walked up to Schmidt and leaned in close, his black eyes hawk-bright above his aquiline nose. "And I'm betting you were never SS, or anything so glamourous. It's easy enough to brag to an idol-worshipping boy or a pack of gullible American bigots – but the truth? Usually very humdrum." Zak straightened up. "We'll find out in time. Someone will know you. Someone will remember."

"You're very sure of that, _Jew_," Schmidt replied. His lips twisted in contempt. "But you are young."

"Not so young." Zak smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes. "And I have met many victims of people like you. Their memories are longer than you swine ever seem to imagine or expect."

Schmidt sighed; and for once the look on his face was sincere. "There are not so many left. We are all dying out – the heroes, the villains, the witnesses, the bystanders. If I ever had any victims, soon I will join them. My heart is not so good these days."

Mac broke in. "Was it ever?"

Schmidt eyed him sidelong, but did not reply.

Zak snorted. "I suppose you'll deny that you were even a Nazi?" He grinned mirthlessly. "We'll see what that grandson of yours has to say, of course. One wonders how deep family loyalty truly goes – particularly since you've already cost him his career _and_ he's facing a fine long prison sentence. Plenty of time to think things over."

At that, Schmidt settled back into his chair, glowering. Zak stood over him, his head cocked to one side consideringly. "It's the fear of recognition that always haunts you, isn't it? Never entirely banished from the mind, no matter how many years pass – it's always there, waiting at the foot of your bed when you go to sleep and again when you wake up. Stalking you at odd moments, leaping out from the newspapers when you read about the arrest of one of your former comrades."

Zak turned his back on Schmidt and walked over to the window. The room was at the back of the hotel, overlooking an alleyway; the view was partially obscured by a grid of thick metal bars outside the window, intended to keep thieves from entering the hotel via the fire escape. The Mossad agent stared out through the barred window. "And worse, of course – there's what can happen once you've been recognised. Ever since we took Eichmann, none of you have been able to sleep quite so soundly."

"Not since you murdered him," Schmidt spat.

"Murdered?" Zak replied. "He was tried and executed for war crimes." He settled into a chair by the window and studied Schmidt with a wolfish expression. "So. Who was it that you thought might recognise you? Ruth Collins? Is that why you tried to kill her?"

"Kill her?" Schmidt's face settled into a bland smile. "I don't know what you're talking about, Jew."

"Wait a minute," MacGyver said. "You expect us to believe you didn't know about that? You were tryin' to get the paintings as ransom for her!"

Schmidt shrugged. "So? Herr Hunter and his gang of God-besotted idiots went a little crazy. I had nothing to do with that."

"And you only know about them because – let's see . . . " Zak leaned back in his chair, tilting it onto its back legs. "You all like to go hunting together, perhaps? Or visit art galleries?"

"You will be able to prove nothing."

"We'll see about that," Mac said. "Your hunt came up empty-handed. Ruth Collins is safe, and Hunter and his buddies are all in jail." He felt a bright inner glow seeing Schmidt's face darken at the news. "And you can bet that they've already started pointing fingers at each other. And at you, and your grandson. So you might as well get a jump on them. How'd you meet them?"

The old man glared. "There is nothing you can prove! Yes, I knew them. We met at a swap meet. I had a few keepsakes from the war – and I needed money more than I needed momentoes. They paid very well for my . . . souvenirs."

"And they fawned on you and kissed your ass." Zak let his chair tilt forward with a sharp snap as the front legs hit the floor again. "You must have been a glorious hero to them – a real live Nazi for them to adore! So either you lied to them, or you are lying to us, or perhaps both. Can you even remember what the truth is any more?"

Mac broke in. "Was Ryan one of them already? Or did he just get involved when your name turned up in the Brandenburg files?"

He saw the superior smirk crawl across Schmidt's face like a foul mask as the old man settled back in his chair, folding his arms. "You will be able to prove nothing."

Mac found himself grinning like a wolf. "Yeah? Don't pin your hopes on Dexter wipin' the files. We were on to him from the start." _And once we've got our hands on the Professor, I bet Dexter oughta be able to learn a few things from that quarter._

The remark hit home. Schmidt's face went nearly as white as his hair. He glanced over towards the bedside table, where he'd left his gun, but his view was blocked by Officer Rosenthal, who was following the discussion with an expression of morbid disgust. On Schmidt's other side, the old man was walled in by the massive form of Officer Wyatt, who was waiting with apparently infinite and impassive patience.

The old man's stiff shoulders seemed to crumble. He turned and stared desperately at the paintings again. "Those _verdammt_ files . . . _**no**_!"

MacGyver glanced over at Laura, who had been watching the exchange with wide eyes.

Zak had leaned back in his chair again, a glint in his eye. "You should have let go of it while you could, you know. If you weren't in on the murder attempts or the kidnapping, why the hell did you jump in with the ransom demand? I can believe you're that stupid, but greedy as well?"

Schimdt glared at him sullenly. "The Professor thought it was our best opportunity to get the paintings back."

" '_Back_' !?" Laura broke in. "What are you talking about? Those are looted artworks from the war – "

"They are _my_ paintings! They have been mine since the war." His eyes lit up with a sudden gleam of cunning. "And if you have given me a fake, then _you_ are the thieves!"

"We can guess how you got them," Laura blurted. Her face was ashen with fury.

Schmidt glowered at her. "The previous owners have been dead many years now. The pictures are mine." He folded his arms again, a solid wall of conviction. "Prove that they are not."

"If they're yours, how did they end up in the Phoenix Collection?" Laura burst out. "How did Frau Brandenburg get hold of them?"

Schmidt's face suddenly turned black with rage. "That _verdammt_ _Miststück_ – it was her! She blackmailed me!"

Mac's mind was racing. "That's it – that's how Frau Brandenburg got the misfit paintings in her collection – she _extorted_ them." He looked from Laura to Schmidt, the light dawning. "She must've recognised you, tracked you down when she started to assemble her files for the new Reich."

Schmidt threw up his hands. "Those damned paintings! I always knew they were worth a fortune, but how to sell them? I did not know. For years I had a fortune in my hands that I could not use. Finally I asked my friend the Professor; he knew Frau Brandenburg, and he tried to sell them to her." He glared at Zak. "_She_ identified me, somehow – I never knew how she did it. But she and her pig of a grandson came to my house and threatened me. All I had to offer was the paintings. She took them and said she'd be back when she had a better use for me."

Zak smirked. "So if you were not a Nazi, what did she have to threaten you with?"

Schmidt's eyes narrowed and his thin lips pressed tightly together again.

Mac broke in again. "Okay, fine. We'll get back to that later."

"But then where did she get the Rembrandt?" Laura asked. She was staring at the Renoir as if the nonchalant café patrons knew something, and might tell her if she pleaded hard enough.

"She must have blackmailed someone else – " Zak began.

"The Professor!" Mac stood up and leaned over Schmidt. "Okay, Rolf, time to share. What's your connection to the Professor? Who is he, anyway?"

The old man turned his stubborn gaze to meet Mac's. "I think perhaps that will be something we can discuss in time, _nicht wahr_?"

"Not much time. He's got the Rembrandt, right? That means Pete's got _him_."

"You are very sure about that."

The sudden harsh jangle of the telephone fractured the taut atmosphere of the room. Laura started at the sound.

Zak was the closest to the phone, but he made no move to pick it up; instead, he glanced at Wyatt and MacGyver and raised an eyebrow.

Wyatt frowned and gestured to Schmidt. "Answer it."

MacGyver felt his hackles rise as Schmidt walked over and picked up the phone. "Yes?"

It took Mac a moment before he worked out why he felt so uneasy: Schmidt was holding the phone, standing by the window where his tall form presented a distinct silhouette, backlit by the lights in the hotel room against the darkness outside. Mac realised it in the instant that he heard the crash as the bullet struck the glass and pierced it, followed immediately by the unmistakable, unforgettable, sickeningly solid thud of the bullet hitting Schmidt's body. As the popping sound of the shot finally reverberated through the room, the second bullet rang the same sequence, this time ending in the horrific sound of the bullet missing Schmidt as he fell to the floor, ripping through empty air to bury itself in the far wall.

Wyatt and Rosenthal dived towards Schmidt as he collapsed like a discarded puppet; Laura simply ducked, throwing herself to the floor.

Although he'd been closest to the window when the first shot was fired, Zak didn't leap to the falling body of the old man. His Beretta had appeared in his hand as if teleported there, and he sprang to the largest window, the one that allowed access to the fire escape. He had already yanked the window open and was working the catch that held the grid of metal bars outside the window, intended to keep thieves from entering the hotel via the fire escape. If he had heard the sound of the bullets passing by him, he hadn't bothered to pay attention to them.

Zak hardly glanced at MacGyver as Mac ran towards the window; he shoved the grille open and stepped aside, as smoothly as if they had partnered each other for years, giving Mac a clear shot to vault out onto the fire escape without slowing down.

Mac glanced across the alleyway as he threw himself down the metal steps. The shooter had climbed the fire escape on the building across the alley from Schmidt's hotel, and was now down at the bottom platform, clambering over the rail, hampered by the rifle he carried. It was Cody – Mac knew him the moment he saw the dim figure in its black clothing. Cody dropped to the ground, slung the rifle over his back and started to run.

Mac's brain hadn't had time to register how high up he'd been before he reached the lowest flight on the fire escape. He launched himself from the steps before he actually reached the bottom platform, grabbing the rail with both hands and swinging himself over, dropping the rest of the way to street level. By the time he'd rolled out of the fall and scrambled to his feet, Cody was almost to the end of the alley where it debouched into the street, but he was still in sight and Mac saw which way he turned.

MacGyver rounded the corner at full pelt and tore up the street after Cody, his long legs eating up the distance. He was already gaining on the kid, and Cody knew it: he had glanced over his shoulder twice already as the sound of pursuing feet drew nearer, each time losing a bit more ground. He was still encumbered by the rifle; after the second backward glance, he threw it away and put on a burst of speed.

Mac ran past it without pausing, barely glancing at it. It was an SKS carbine – probably Chinese-made, with its stock painted a dull black – common as dirt and almost as cheap. The cops would collect it when they followed, although it probably wouldn't yield up any information; it was too easy to eradicate the identifying marks. Cody wouldn't have dumped it so readily otherwise. By itself, the rifle wasn't going to be much use.

He needed to bring Cody down, and he was gaining on him.

He ran harder, his feet hardly touching the pavement. Cody looked back again, and this time he actually met Mac's eyes; Mac saw the flash of recognition in them. With that flash, the spark of fear in Cody's expression went out. There was a flicker of a sneer instead.

Cody ducked into the mouth of another alleyway. A moment later, as he approached, Mac heard the pounding of Cody's booted feet stop.

_Just how dumb does he think I am?_

_Plenty, MacGyver. How many fights have I thrown to him so far?_

The alley was a patchwork of shadows, the looming bulk of dumpsters and garbage cans flanking an irregular space, with only a stray finger of light from the streetlights reaching in past the mouth to sparkle on the broken glass that littered the uneven pavement. Mac's senses were still keyed up; even as he rounded the corner, he had a clear hold on just where the sound of Cody's feet had been right before it had ceased. He knew where Cody was and how to draw him out. Mac ran forward, not needing to peer around himself into the shadows.

Cody didn't even wait for MacGyver to pass the corner of the dumpster where he was crouching; he jumped out as Mac was passing. His knife was in his hand, the blade catching a glitter of reflected light.

Mac twisted sideways as Cody sprang. When Cody reached for him, he wasn't there.

When Cody spun around to find him, he wasn't where he should have been. But Mac's leg was hooked around Cody's ankle, and the glass-strewn pavement was coming up to meet him. Then Mac's fingers were locked around the wrist of the hand that held the knife; the sudden yank stopped Cody's fall before the glass shredded him, and another twist somehow impossibly levered him into the air. He was spinning, sprawling, slamming into the side of the dumpster where he'd been crouching only a moment before. His knife flew out of his hand and was gone into the darkness.

Cody scrambled back to his feet and threw himself onto MacGyver again with a roar of fury. Mac met his charge coolly, blocking one wildly-aimed blow and ducking out of the way of the next – almost; the edge of Cody's fist scraped against Mac's head. The glancing blow wouldn't have amounted to much, but Cody had caught him right on the spot where Buck had clipped him with the rifle barrel earlier that afternoon.

Mac yelped and pulled back, and Cody felt a wild flare of sudden hot confidence and tried to press his advantage. He charged directly into the hammerblow of a right cross.

He didn't notice the glass when he hit the pavement and lay stunned.

When the police cruiser pulled up a few minutes later, Mac was still shaking the sting out of his fingers and wiping the blood off his face from where the cut on his scalp had reopened. He glanced up as Wyatt emerged from the car and loomed over him.

"Glad you could make it. I got a pick-up for you." _Not sure if it counts as recycling or garbage._

Wyatt studied Cody for a moment, watching as the skinhead started to pull himself to his hands and knees. The officer reached down and picked up Cody by the scruff of the jacket.

"Might want to be careful there, son . . . didn't your mama ever tell you not to go crawlin' where there's broken glass?"

"Fuck you, nigger . . . "

Wyatt raised an eyebrow. "That ain't no way to talk. I sure hope you don't talk to your mama like that."

Mac had to admire Wyatt's apparently unflappable patience as the officer handcuffed Cody and read him his rights, never missing a beat in the face of a nonstop deluge of racist epithets and bloodthirsty threats. Wyatt even loaded Cody into the back of the police cruiser with apparent gentleness – a feat made physically possible by the officer's imposing size. Nothing could have made it emotionally easy.

The officer glanced at Zak, who had finally caught up with Mac just after the police car had arrived. Zak handed him Cody's knife, which he'd retrieved from the alley. Zak had wrapped a handkerchief loosely around the hilt; under the streetlights, the swastika peeped out from the folds of cloth.

"Schmidt – is he . . .?"

Wyatt shook his head. " 'Fraid not. It'll be a murder charge for our young friend here." The officer's mouth twisted in a sardonic expression. "Another 'incident' of white-on-white violence, and you just _know_ that his buddies are goin' to blame it all on the Jews and the niggers." He saw Mac's face. "You don't like hearin' me use that word, do you?"

"Better you than me. I guess."

Wyatt flashed a grin, the white teeth a startling contrast in his dark face. "It ain't what I call myself when I look in the mirror."

"Good to hear that."

Wyatt nodded absently, turning his attention to the arrival of another police cruiser. A brief exchange, and the new arrival headed off to collect the discarded rifle. The officer turned back to MacGyver.

"That young friend of yours – Rafael Alvarado – he the one who drew those suspect sketches? Including the one of the skinhead here?"

"Yup, that was him."

"Well, tell him from me that he's good. Real good. I wish our regular sketch artist was half as good."

Mac grinned. "I'll do that. Of course – it would mean a lot more if you told him yourself."

Wyatt shook his head. "You Phoenix folks have given me enough paperwork to fill the rest of my night. I'm goin' home to sleep when I finally get done with it."

"I didn't mean tonight," Mac answered. "You know where the Challengers Club is? Rafé always shows up for the basketball game on Friday afternoon. Think you could drop in about that time?"

Another grin like a flashbulb in the darkness. "I'll keep it in mind. 'Long as I don't have to play myself. I suck at basketball. Always did."

They all looked up at the screech of a braking vehicle; the white Phoenix tech van had pulled up in front of the opening to the alleyway. Addie was driving – she had mastered the art of driving on the right early in her stay in the US, although she still complained about the rear-view mirror being on the wrong side.

Willis bailed out of the front seat almost before the van had stopped and ran to where MacGyver was standing. "Mac – _Mac_! Are you all right?!" He was staring wildly at Mac's face.

Mac put a hand up to the half-forgotten cut; the blood was drying already, but it had crusted in his hair and run down his face. He must look like a mess. "I'm fine, Willis. Lighten up. Any word from Pete? Have they got the Professor?"

Willis looked drawn and unhappy. "If you're done here, Mac, Pete wants us to meet him. Bad news."



The police cars were drawn up in an empty parking lot behind a Thai restaurant, their headlights washing over a collection of dumpsters and scattered litter. The GPS unit was still working, but the signal only led to this dead end, where the abandoned frame from the forged Rembrandt now framed an empty trash can.

MacGyver stood over the wreckage, shaking his head. "Aw, _man_."

"How did he _know_?" Pete demanded of no-one in particular. "Could there have been a leak?"

"He probably didn't know," Laura said heavily. "It's a common practice in art theft – cutting the paintings out of their frames makes them easier to transport. Most of the weight and bulk is the frame and the stretcher. It's a terrible thing to do to a painting, but it happens all the time."

Mac ran an exploring hand along the inside of the frame, where the painting had been cut out of the heavy, massive carved and gilded wood with a razor-sharp knife. "Do you think he knows he's got a fake?"

"I doubt it. He wouldn't have taken the painting if he'd known." Laura looked at Mac with haunted eyes. "What do we do next?"

Mac put an arm around her. "We've got Cody under wraps, and Hunter and his crew – we'll track him down." _I sure hope that's what comes next._



_What happened next was that the trail went cold._

_Cody sat in his cell, clammed up like a stuck bench vise. He insisted he'd never actually met the Professor in person, had only talked to him on the phone, and wouldn't tell us anything even if he did know. I don't think it was personal loyalty: I think it made him feel like a hero, in some sick, twisted way. As far as he was concerned, he was a soldier who'd been captured by the enemy. It was his duty to keep his mouth shut. I wouldn't've been surprised to hear that he'd been reciting his name, imaginary rank, and non-existent serial number to the cops when they questioned him._

_There weren't any leads at his house, either. His mom couldn't even believe that he was a thug turned assassin. His room at home was full of guns and ammo and Nazi memorabilia, the cops linked him to several armed robberies, and she still kept insisting he was just a history buff. And a 'good boy'. If she'd known who the Professor was, she'd've turned him in to the cops in a heartbeat, to take the heat off her boy._

_As for Hunter – he wouldn't talk to a lawyer at all, wouldn't defend himself, and kept insisting that the DA had no right to try him under 'God's law', whatever that was. Then the deputy DA started swapping Bible quotations with him during their chats, and suddenly Hunter started singing like a canary._

_Except a canary's song isn't ugly and hateful._

_And Hunter knew plenty about Schmidt . . . except a lot of it was a pack of lies . . . and not a thing about the Professor._

_Dead end._

* * *


	20. gesture study 6

_**gesture study**_

Light.

A wash of morning sunlight came through the window and glittered on the surface of the portrait; but it only seemed to enhance the magnificent, eternal drama in the painting itself, as light and shadow wrestled for possession of the old man's face. There he stood, the plumes on his helmet almost seeming to flutter in the morning breeze, forever caught between the darkness of his past and the bright hope of a glorious future.

The deep creases in his craggy face, the tired wise eyes, spoke to the Professor. He, too, had fought in too many battles and was ready to pause and take stock, even if true rest could not be found this side of the grave. It was better so: better to outlive one's enemies, even if the soul grew weary and the bones ached more each year.

Ruth Collins was dead. Rolf Schmidt was dead. That Brandenburg cow had said nothing, refusing to cooperate with the authorities – although it would be safer if she, too, could be taken care of so that she would not be able to change her mind about that.

And he had his treasure back. The bitch had screwed it out of him, under threat of exposure; now it glowed in even greater splendour than before she had made her obscene demands. In forty-five years, he'd never even thought to have it professionally restored; now, the proud commander's face glowed in the flood of light that had grown so dim under the heavy burden of time. The painting, his greatest prize and his secret triumph, was home again, hanging on his wall where he could see it every day.

He'd already re-stretched the canvas. Finding a proper frame for it would take longer; but it had been such a relief to cast aside the hideous, heavy gilt frame that the Brandenburg woman had inflicted on his treasure. That vile cow. How could a woman get her claws on so much of the world's most rarified beauty, and still have no more taste or refinement than a cheap whore?

Once, he had thought only of selling it – fine as the piece was, it took money, not art, to buy security and the ordinary comforts of life. It was money that persuaded people to look the other way, until so many years had passed that they had forgotten there was anything to ignore. Thank God he had never had to go so far. There had been other works of art, and they had fattened his pockets and guaranteed a peaceful, comfortable life; but it was his treasure that brought true glory to his survival. Every time he looked at it, he knew in his heart that, whatever the outcome of the war, he himself was the eternal victor.

* * *


	21. Fifteen: Post Modern

**Aftershocks**

**Fifteen: Post-Modern**



_We did get one lucky break._

_There weren't a lot of photographs to be found of Schmidt – no surprise there; nothing like the fear of deportation and imprisonment – or execution – to make a guy camera-shy. The oldest ones we could find dated back to the late sixties. We collected every one we could get hold of – Willis wanted to try doing age-regression computer projections – but that project got kinda sidetracked._

_Like Zak said, someone remembered him._

"My God." Ruth reached out a gnarled hand to trace the lines of a young Schmidt's face, looking out sternly from underneath a military cap emblazoned with an SS badge. "I recognise him."

Rafé looked up, wide-eyed, from the table where he and Stephanie had been working. He nudged her elbow, and she started and swore – mildly, in spite of Addie's recent influence – at the splatter of black ink that smeared across yet another drawing of an even younger Schmidt. They had been bent over their task for hours, passing sketches back and forth, peeling away the years from the image they'd seen in the photographs. Rafé had done much of the preliminary work, pushing the age of the face back a few years at a time, while Stephanie took each sketch and doodled period details into the background, regressing Schmidt's environment backwards through the decades. One especially effective drawing showed him scowling at a recognisable scene from "Hogan's Heroes" on a late 1950s-era console television.

Once they felt they'd taken his age back far enough, Rafé had begun to experiment with other changes – hair style and colour, facial hair, visible traces of weight gain or loss in the face. But Stephanie had taken the real lead. She'd reduced the face to a simplified but still recognisable essence, and covered a large sheet of paper with the same face in a dizzying range of expressions – laughing, shouting, sneering, scowling; eating, drinking, smoking, sleeping; crushed with fatigue, blurry-eyed with liquor, crazed with anger, wooden-faced and dead-eyed in full military dress. Most disturbing were a larger sketch of him saluting a blurry image of Hitler, and another of him leering at some phantom woman that he had glimpsed just off the edge of the sheet of paper.

MacGyver, rising to stretch his back and arms after too many hours absorbed in the computer files, had looked with astonishment at the array of faces, and then looked away, suddenly reluctant to examine them. He didn't want to feel any more familiarity with Schmidt, didn't want to get to know the younger self. He glanced up, somewhat guiltily, as Ruth entered the lab – he could tell by her expression that she was looking for him.

She was elegantly dressed for the upcoming evening, her outfit glittering with blue and green beads and spangles, the fading bruises and marks on her face almost entirely hidden under carefully applied make-up. She'd been out of the hospital for three days now. She was still using a cane – the one she carried tonight had an inlaid ebony shaft and a faceted crystal knob for a handle – but she walked lightly enough that she almost seemed not to need it at all, except to emphasise her presence.

She was leaning on it heavily now, as she stared at the sketches of Schmidt.

"Dear God," she breathed again. Rafé had bolted to his feet and found a chair, and Ruth sank into it, still staring at the collage of faces. "Yes . . . I remember him. He was with the SS in France – he was _Bandenbekämpfer_."

"A 'bandit hunter'?" Stephanie looked bewildered.

Ruth's mouth twitched. "How many years of German did you take at that prep school of yours?"

Stephanie suddenly looked embarrassed instead "Only two – but I heard a lot of it growing up. My parents think Wagner's, like, totally cool. By the time I actually studied German, I kind of felt like I already knew it." She leaned in towards Ruth. "So what's it really mean? Why 'bandits'?"

"_Bandenbekämpfung_ was the SS mandate to crush local resistance to Nazi occupation. By any means necessary – and you know what that can mean." She caught MacGyver's eye, and he caught the twitch in her face. "They were actually anti-_partisan_, but that whole part of the Nazi scheme was dubbed the 'anti-bandit' forces."

"But . . . " Stephanie's hand, apparently moving independently, doodled a masked figure waving a toy sword. " '_Bandits_'?"

"The Nazis called guerilla fighters 'bandits' ," Ruth replied gently. "More or less the way many governments today call all their opponents 'terrorists' or 'insurgents'. It denies the opponents the dignity of having an actual position, or any right to resist."

Addie had spent most of the last few hours doing half-hearted work cleaning a Biblical scene by Tintoretto, with frequent breaks to see how Stephanie and Rafé were doing. Now she broke in. "So what went down with old Creepy-Eyes Schmidt anyway – whatcha remember?"

Ruth stood up again and turned towards her, but her face was suddenly stony. "If you don't mind, I'd sooner keep the details to myself. It's bad enough that I've remembered them; I see no reason to share the nightmare."

An awkward silence followed this remark. Stephanie looked down at her wandering pen; Rafé looked desperately at MacGyver; Mac chewed his lip, studying Ruth's face.

In the sudden quiet, Addie simply walked up to the old woman, flung her arms around her and hugged her, somehow managing to be fierce and gentle at the same time. Mac retrieved the cane from Ruth's hand to leave her free to return the embrace. Addie bowed her head over Ruth, her hair, dead-black where it wasn't streaked with magenta, falling in a curtain to screen Ruth's face so no-one could see the tears raining down.

After a long, quiet moment, Ruth drew a very deep breath and deliberately stepped away from the girl. "Enough now, child. If I ruin my makeup it will take ages to repair, and it's no use to me to frighten the horses. Or the donors, which matters a great deal more to me." She reached up and rumpled Addie's already wild hair. "Come see me in San Francisco while you're still in the States, my dear. There are some parts of the city that I think you'll like very much."

She turned to Mac, looking from him to the computer screen. "Any luck? You've had your head in those files for what, five days now?"

"What the fuck you lookin' for anyways?" Addie asked. "You ain't 'ardly budged for _hours_."

"Outliers." Mac handed Ruth the cane again and looked at the screen as if it might still cough up an answer. On the dark screen, the blocky white letters glowed feebly, as if the fruitless search had exhausted them too. "You remember Frau had her own scoring system? I've been running search patterns – looking for people with very high or very low scores, or a wide spread, or no scores at all. Willis is doing cross-checks – he's more, umm . . . " Mac gestured vaguely.

"Methodical," Ruth supplied. "And he doesn't get bored easily."

Mac gave her a sour look. Ruth patted his hand. "MacGyver, you're not going to find the Professor if he isn't there to be found."

"I _know_! But if I keep lookin', maybe I'll find _something_ . . . "

"Whaddya mean?" Addie burst out. " 'e's gotta be there!"

Mac shook his head decisively. "I don't think the Professor was ever in Frau's files."

"But the ol' bat musta known 'im – ol' Creepy-Eyes – " Addie gestured towards the sketches littered on the table – " 'e said the Prof tried to sell her the paintings!"

"Yeah, I know! And I can't explain it!" Mac ran a hand through his already tangled hair. "But Ryan only tried to erase _two_ names – his own grandfather, and his grampa's buddy Hunter. He didn't even try for a third name. Why not? Why wouldn't the Professor have tried to get his own name wiped?"

Ruth nodded. "It makes sense only if his name wasn't there to be removed in the first place . . . in which case, the question is, why wasn't it?"

"That's right. Either that, or it's in here, somewhere, and he doesn't know it, and I haven't found it."

"Well, it's high time you gave it a rest. And it's getting late. You _did _remember that the auction is tonight?" She surveyed MacGyver, taking in his scruffy jeans and T-shirt, battered sneakers and leather jacket. "I trust you have a change of clothes somewhere to hand?"

Rafé looked confused, but Stephanie suddenly brightened. "That's right! It's your big fund-raiser – the one for the children's hospital." Her face fell again, just as quickly. "My parents are going to be there."

Rafé looked at her with quiet resignation. "They gonna want to see you."

Stephanie winced, and Rafé took her hand. "Hey, you can't blame them. I like lookin' at you myself."

She looked at him desperately. "They really aren't going to like seeing _you_, though . . . "

Rafé grinned, an easy crooked grin. "Baby, I don' think I been invited. An' that's all right with me. For now. We can worry 'bout invitations some other time. Okay?"

Stephanie looked mutinous, but Ruth bent over her and spoke confidentially. "Choose your fights, dear. And your ground. Right now, I'd recommend blandishment. Tell your parents all about the amazingly important people you've met here."

The girl gave her an impatient look. "Like who? Other than you?"

"Oh, me for certain. Feel free to tell them you have me twisted round your delicate finger – your father will gloat over that notion. Other than that – the German consul general will be there, or I'll know the reason why – I'll make sure I introduce you right off the bat. Anjali Prajna, believe it or not, is both highly regarded in legal circles and well-connected socially. And, of course, we have some internationally famous art experts right here in the lab. And Pete is _frightfully_ important."

"What about MacGyver? Is he coming?"

Ruth gave Stephanie and the other interns a knowing look. "He is indeed. And now we come to the critical issue. I trust you three did sign your confidentiality pledges before you started work here?"

Two blank expressions, and a firm nod of assent from Stephanie.

"Good. Because the sight of MacGyver in a suit and tie is a rare vision, vouchsafed to few. And we can't risk the damage to his reputation that might ensue from a careless remark . . . "

"Oh, _stop_," Mac growled as he headed out of the lab for the showers.

When he returned half an hour later, showered, combed, dressed up and disgruntled, he saw the astonishment on the interns' faces. Laura had arrived, also dressed for the evening; she smiled at MacGyver with approval. Mac's eyes lit up when he saw her, and then his cheeks flushed with embarrassment – she was wearing something white and gold and sleek and elegant, which made his slapdash efforts at fancy dress seem sloppy and half-hearted. Still, it would have to do.

Ruth fixed him with a beady eye, but he met her look steadily.

"You remembered a jacket and a clean shirt, and neglected to bring a tie?"

Mac stuck his thumbs in the front pockets of his dress trousers and slanted a grin at her. "I kinda had a hunch you'd provide one again."

Ruth's face twitched, and she broke into a broad smile as Stephanie and Addie dissolved into giggles. "Touché. Laura, my dear, do please tell me you found time to do my shopping . . . ah, thank you." Laura handed her a slim box stamped in gold with the logo of a high-end boutique. "They still aren't letting me run loose."

Laura pretended to consult an invisible calendar. "You can hardly blame them, Ruth. I don't have room in my schedule for another hairbreadth rescue. Mac, how about you?"

Mac shrugged. "You kidding? I might mess up Ruth's new tie."

This time, when MacGyver flipped open the box, he raised an eyebrow at the brilliant, glowing colours, just short of garish. He lifted the tie out of its nest of tissue paper and held it up, his fingers running along the fine, smooth silk of the fabric.

"Wow." In spite of himself, he grinned. "Van Gogh again."

Laura looked at Ruth resignedly. "_Damn_ you. He recognised it right away."

Ruth beamed. "Pay up." Laura handed her a quarter.

Mac looked chagrined. "That's all it was worth?"

Ruth shrugged. "Well, I really didn't want to take poor Laura to the cleaners – "

"Ha!" Laura snorted.

" – and I already had to pay off Gordie."

"You 'ad a flutter with me dad?" Addie asked.

"We had a bet on his forgery of the Rembrandt," Ruth said with a melodramatic sigh. "I honestly didn't think he could really tell, under all the discolouration, what the portrait actually looked like. Now that he's finally had time to clean the original . . . well, all I can say is, I knew he was brilliant, but I am well and truly in awe of his talents. Extraordinary."

Rafé was frowning as he watched MacGyver don the tie. "I don' get it, Mac. You already got some of the ugliest shirts I ever seen, but – _sunflowers_?"

"It's from a Van Gogh painting." Mac glanced up at Ruth. "More propaganda, right?"

"Not exactly . . . " Ruth replied. "Call it a concession to my mood. I re-read Wiesenthal's _The Sunflower_ while I was recovering, and I couldn't resist."

"Isn't that the one he wrote about being in a concentration camp?" Stephanie asked.

"Yes – it explores the nature of forgiveness. I found I rather needed the perspective."

Rafé still looked perplexed. "I don' get it."

"The Nazi soldiers had sunflowers planted on their graves." Stephanie's face was serious, but her eyes glowed with intensity. "Wiesenthal thought he was going to die, and there wouldn't be any sunflowers for him. But he survived."

"And lived to go chase Nazis," Ruth concluded. "And he's done a damned good job of it, too."

"Not that anyone at this event will be thinking of Nazis – " Laura began.

"Don't count on it," said Ruth drily. "The key donor for the new wing is Joseph Goldman. He's on the short list for the Phoenix board of directors – and his uncle's a survivor too. He's been very interested in the art project from the beginning. That's why poor MacGyver is suffering the indignity of yet another fancy-dress event: Goldman specifically asked for him to be there."

Mac grimaced.



They had hardly arrived before Ruth was buttonholed and whisked away by Erich Hartmann, the German consul general. Mac wandered through the overdressed, chattering crowd, his hands in his pockets, feeling oddly isolated as he studied the partygoers. It was a more eclectic gathering than the art show up in San Francisco had been, and somehow a more cheerful group; the smiles seemed warmer and the fragments of overheard conversation less superficial.

He spotted Stephanie with her parents, dressed more Bohemian than preppy; there was a visible veneer of annoyance on her father's face. As expected, Rafé was nowhere in sight, but to Mac's surprise Addie was trailing along behind. She was dressed much more sedately than usual – although to Mac's inexperienced eye, she still looked as if she'd assembled her outfit at random, in the dark, with her eyes closed. She'd merely used a better grab bag this time.

Mac strolled into another section of the grand suite of rooms where the event was being hosted, and stopped short at the now familiar sight of a row of framed paintings on easels. Laura was standing next to a Caravaggio, talking animatedly to a tall, thin black man in a tuxedo and a heavyset black woman in a wildly floral dress with an elaborate hat.

Beside her, like an old and dear friend met in the most unexpected place, was Sam Bolinski's Rubens landscape. The painting had been cleaned as well as repaired, and glowed with colour and life; MacGyver's eyes followed the lines of the receding vista, lured beyond the crest of the serene hills. Beyond the hills lay – what? Mac understood how Sam had been drawn into it as a child, how a small and imaginative boy could have fallen so deeply in love with a painted landscape.

As he studied the painting, a sudden recognition hit him. He'd _been_ there. The painting showed the wooded hills of the Zoomse en Kalmthoutse Heide, a vast wild nature preserve near the Netherlands border. Eight years back, he'd been kicking his heels in Antwerp, waiting for word to head out on a courier job for the DXS; after getting thoroughly bored with the city, he'd hopped a bus and gone north to spend a long day rambling around the preserve, soaking up the timeless peace and beauty of the landscape.

_Three hundred and fifty years since someone saw the same hills, and painted them. And here they are._

More or less; the painting didn't exactly show the actual hills. It showed a dream of them, or a memory, somehow clear and distinct and yet elusive, a memory too precious to lose but too remote to be grasped tightly. Nothing in particular had happened that day, and he'd forgotten all about it – and yet the memory had surfaced, bright and shimmering, as he looked at the painting.

"MacGyver?" Laura was speaking to him. He blinked. She smiled her warm smile.

Mac shook his head to clear it. "I don't get it." He gestured at the row of paintings. "Do these fancy-dress events _always_ include an art show?"

Laura laughed. "Of course not."

"Every one I've been at has."

"All both of them?"

"Well . . . "

"You've had your head buried in those damned computer files for too long. I don't think you've actually heard anything that anyone's said to you in the last three days."

"I've been kinda preoccupied . . . "

"I figured that out – you were supposed to come get me for dinner at seven last night."

"I was?" Mac looked stricken. "Aw, _man_, you're right . . . I _was_ . . . Hey, wait a minute – you were workin' in the art lab at least as late as I was! You were there at Phoenix too, all the time!"

"Not quite. I did finally notice the time at about eight o'clock or so." Laura quirked a smile at him. "If you think back carefully, you might remember a sandwich materialising on your desk about then. I hope it was okay – it was from that little deli – "

"Yeah, the one over on Wilshire Boulevard – I can always recognise their sandwiches. They grow their own sprouts." Mac grinned sheepishly. "Thanks. I'll make it up to you."

"You better." Laura glanced around to see if anyone was watching, and gave him a quick kiss that ended up not quick at all.

After they'd come up for air, Mac gestured towards the pictures. "So what's the deal? Why'd they put on an art exhibit for a kids' hospital?"

"Oh, Ruth's pulling strings again."

"Wow. What a surprise." MacGyver peered at the paintings. There were only a dozen on display, a mixture of Old Masters and some newer works. "Anything to do with Goldman?"

"Good guess! Yes – most of the donated items tonight are in the silent auction, but there's always a handful of really choice offerings for the live auction. This is one of them." Laura gestured towards a Cézanne still life. The riotous, glowing colours of the ripe fruits in the bowl made MacGyver's tie look tame. "It's from Joseph Goldman's personal collection, although just between you and me, it's not much compared with the rest of his stash. But most of those are going to be willed to assorted museums anyway."

"What about the rest of it? What's Sam's painting doing here?"

"The Cézanne belonged to Joseph's uncle, the one who survived Dachau. It was recovered after the war by the Monuments Men and restored to him." She waved a hand at the other artworks. "Everything here has a similar story – Ruth and Joseph have been plotting this for _weeks_, tracking down suitable works and twisting the appropriate arms to allow them to be exhibited together."

"She's tryin' to lure more heirs out of the woodwork."

"Not just that – she's also fishing for donors to keep funding the Phoenix art project. Douglas Carmichael is probably going to back away, since we haven't brainwashed Stephanie into giving up the creative life. On the other hand, Steffie turns out to have a charmingly eccentric great-uncle who's probably going to become a donor just to annoy Doug." Laura cocked her head. "Mac, your eyes are glazing. Would you like some more art history instead?"

Mac raised a sheepish eyebrow. "If it gets real bad, I can always fall back on talking about hockey."

"Oh, now you're being cruel."

They were interrupted by the sound of Ruth clearing her throat ostentatiously.

"I do hate to intrude – but the live auction will be starting shortly, and the auctioneer is looking for you, Laura. He wants to pick your brain for any additional juicy bits he can use to seduce the bidders into greater flights of charitable extravagance."

"At least it's for a good cause," Laura laughed.

"That, my dear, is the watchword of the day. You may expect to hear it at least half a dozen times for every item." As Laura left, Ruth turned to MacGyver. "And I have to go inspect the silent auction – any item that sparks real interest has to get pulled for the live auction. And Gregory goes all mother-hennish if he sees me pick up anything heavier than a teacup. Would you be good enough to fetch and carry for me? It's for a good cause." She smiled wickedly.

In a side room, the items for the silent auction had been arranged on several long tables, draped in white linen. Mac raised an eyebrow at the figures that had been scrawled on the bidding sheets by each offering; the amounts of money being so casually mentioned still seemed obscene.

"I don't get it. Who _needs_ this stuff?"

"Nobody." Ruth's reply was tart, but good-natured. "Good lord, if it had anything to do with _needs_, we'd never get any money raised at all. Bear in mind that the people here have far more than they need in the first place, and most of them have never had the chance to find out how little they actually need anyway." She leaned on her cane and picked up the bid sheet in front of a basket of lotions and sachets, studying it with a frown. "The only need that matters tonight is their need to feel that they're doing something positive. That, at least, is a genuine need." She glanced at Mac's face and laughed. "You may go ahead and suspect me of any amount of devious behind-the-scenes manipulation in this matter. You'll be quite correct."

"Just tell me that Phoenix doesn't get its funding this way, okay?"

"Good lord, no. This is pocket change compared to what it takes to keep the lights on at home." Ruth picked up a bottle of exotic wine, a brochure for a tropical resort , and a jewel case that held a glittering bracelet, and handed them to Mac. "The biggest trouble is funding our, shall we say, more sensitive activities. Financial transparency is admirable, but not for clandestine operations."

Mac followed her out to the main hall, where Laura was deep in conversation with the auctioneer, a stout, jovial man in a tux, whose bow tie seemed permanently askew. Ruth caught the man's eye and gestured towards the table where MacGyver was depositing his haul. When Mac met her eyes again, he saw a look of unexpected sympathy.

"MacGyver, I'm so sorry . . . I've been treating you rather shabbily, haven't I? I don't think I realised just how much it bothers you. It isn't just the fancy dress and the stuffy formality, is it? It's the _money_."

Mac shrugged. "I guess someone's got to look after it."

"Like the plumbing? You're glad it's there, but you don't like dealing with it yourself? You wouldn't want to have to crawl around in the sewers . . . "

"Well, actually, I _have_ . . . "

Ruth winced. "I should have guessed. Bad example." She sighed. "Money has its own chemistry and its own biological imperative. Money breeds money and feeds on money. It's as amoral as moss." She turned away from the table where she had been arranging the auction items, meeting Mac's eyes steadily even though she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. "You think it's a toxin, don't you? It's a _resource_."

"Maybe for you. For most folks, it seems to do more damage than anything else."

Ruth tilted an eyebrow. "I understand you can make a bomb out of fertiliser."

Mac let out his breath in an exasperated puff of air and lifted his hands. "Yeah, okay. You got me. But it sure seems to be poisonous to most people. I guess there are a few specialists – like you, for instance – who're immune."

"Oh, lord, not immune. Don't ever assume that." Ruth shook her head. "Resistant at best. You, MacGyver, are the only person I've ever met with a genuine immunity."

Mac shrugged, feeling profoundly embarrassed. He grasped at an excuse to change the subject.

"Ruth, can I ask you something? Old history?"

She looked at him warily. "As long as you promise that 'old history' will mean something of more respectable vintage than the sixties."

"Why'd you join the Resistance?" Ruth looked startled, and he pressed on. "It's not in your file. Your parents got away from France after the Nazis invaded . . . and you stayed. It must've been your own decision, or you'd've gone with them. Why?"

"Can't you guess?" Ruth said softly. She looked embarrassed in turn. "I had fallen in love, MacGyver – with a fine, handsome, brave _partisan_ from Toulon. So I stayed, thinking we'd win the war together, liberate France and live happily ever after. Five months later, I was a widow with a personal vendetta." She snorted. "It makes the whole business of the honours and the medals rather hard to take. Étienne's death was brave, but it was also stupid. We were all young and brave and stupid back then. I was a quick study at espionage, but very slow at learning not to hate."

She looked up suddenly over Mac's shoulder, and he saw her expression shift as a veil of anxious concern dimmed her eyes. He half-turned to see Henry Collins approaching, Gregory following close behind him. Henry was carrying a small plate with a collection of desserts and pastries from the buffet table. He held the plate out to Ruth, his face breaking into a broad smile. "My dear, I don't think you've had the chance to sample the offerings . . . quite a lavish display, I must say."

Ruth took the plate, her face softening. "Henry, you remembered . . . "

Henry suddenly seemed to notice Mac standing next to Ruth, and turned to him. Mac's hackles rose. There was something uncertain, almost flat, in the old man's eyes. MacGyver had seen that vagueness before, off and on over the last few years, but it had never been this marked.

Henry held out a hand. "Um – my dear fellow! I haven't seen you in – how long has it been? Far too long."

_What the heck . . . only a week ago, you were asking me to keep Ruth safe!_ Mac shook the hand automatically and tried to think of something to say.

Ruth tugged gently at Henry's arm. "Not to interrupt, dear, but Erich Hartmann's been trying to get your attention for the last half-hour. We can talk to Mr. MacGyver later." She placed an odd emphasis on the name. Mac met her eyes for a moment as they turned away, and he clearly saw the anguish in them, although he still didn't quite understand.

Gregory had lingered; Mac turned a questioning face to him. "I don't get it – doesn't he . . . "

"Doesn't he remember anything that happened in the last week? Probably not. This is one of his bad days . . . he's had several in a row, to tell the truth. He went through a very bad patch when Mrs. Collins went missing. I didn't dare leave him . . . which is why I could not join you on your trip into the mountains." Gregory cleared his throat, and a shadow passed over his normally impassive face. "That's why Mr. Collins hasn't been making public appearances lately, you see. And why Ruth has been staying close to home."

"You're slippin', Gregory. You just called her 'Ruth' instead of 'Mrs. Collins'." MacGyver watched as Ruth guided Henry gently through the milling crowd of overdressed, jabbering, superficially cheerful people. "It's Alzheimer's, isn't it?"

"Very likely."

"You mean you don't _know_?"

Gregory cleared his throat again. "There is only one reliable method for diagnosing that particular disease, Mr. MacGyver, and it can only be performed when the brain is autopsied." Mac saw the pain in the man's eyes and suddenly realised that he was not much younger than Ruth and Henry.

"In some areas, his mind is as sharp as it's always been – he's still a champion at trivia games, as long as we stay away from current events. And he still remembers who Ruth is, and myself. And Mr. Thornton." Gregory smiled gently. "He usually remembers who you are, and he's only known you for a few years. That won't last, I'm afraid. Generally, it's the newer memories that go first."

Mac recalled his last meeting with Henry Collins, after Ruth had been moved to the hospital in LA. Gregory had made a point of reminding Henry, on Mac's arrival, of who he was and why he was there. "And the real new stuff never sinks in at all?"

"Particularly not when some stress or distress occurs to drive it out again."

"Like Ruth almost getting herself killed."

"Exactly. That was . . . extremely stressful."

Across the room, Ruth was speaking to Hartmann and Dieter von Schüssel, her face and gestures animated; beside her, Henry was nodding amiably, a bland smile fixed on his face. Mac closed his eyes as the pain washed over him.

As the auction started, MacGyver fought the impulse to slip away. The elegantly dressed crowd looked much the same as at the art auction where Sam Bolinski's stolen painting had come to light, but the event itself was dramatically different. There was no sedate raising of paddles or discreet nodding of heads here; the auctioneer harangued and enticed, cajoled and wheedled, teased and joked at the bidders' expense, often setting one against another. As Ruth had predicted, the 'good cause' was mentioned constantly; and the attendees who weren't bidding alternated between laughter and cheers as the tallies mounted.

After a few minutes, Laura came over to join him. She studied his face with concern. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. I'll be fine."

She nodded, obviously lost in her own thoughts. "MacGyver, it's the funniest thing. I was just talking to Erich Hartmann – you know, the German consul?"

"Yeah . . . ?"

"I asked him whether Dieter – Dr. von Schüssel – had heard anything more about repatriating the Rembrandt, and Erich didn't seem to remember ever having known about it."

Mac grinned. "Maybe 'Oldy-Moldy Buckethead' doesn't translate into German too well."

Laura gave him an exasperated look. "You remember – Dieter was liaising with the Kaiser Friedrich Museum in Berlin. I'd expected to hear back before now; you'd think they'd be in seventh heaven about it."

"Huh." Mac scowled. Over beside the row of paintings on display, he saw Henry talking to Gregory and Pete, and wondered if Pete was going through the same wave of shock that had hit Mac a few minutes before. "I don't see Ruth – but maybe she knows something about it . . . "

Mac threaded his way through the crowd until he reached Henry. "Mr. Collins, where's Ruth got herself to? I thought she was right here."

"She went off to talk with Dieter Schulmeister."

"Who?"

Henry was shaking his head ruefully, a sharp gleam in his eyes. There was no sign of vagueness now. "Can't believe that sly old fox is still running around loose. After all these years . . . I dare say she's going to take him to task to help her identify some of those stolen pictures – did you know she's been working on that? Quite the project."

_Schulmeister . . . _

_I used to teach art history at the University of Leipzig._

Dizzying horror washed through MacGyver, and he felt the world shudder and fracture around him.

"Oh my god – the Professor – _it's_ _**Dieter**_!!!"

Mac darted from room to room, searching frantically. There was no sign of the tall man with the smoothly groomed mane of white hair, no sign of Ruth's tiny, frail form.

As he poked his head into the room where the silent auction had been set up, he could hear the loud, cheerful voice of the auctioneer behind him, the rising cadences reaching a new pitch of excitement over the latest prize. Everyone was in the main room, focused on the live auction; it was perfect cover, a complete distraction. No-one would notice anything that happened anywhere else while the auctioneer held them mesmerised.

MacGyver glanced around the room where the tables of gewgaws were laid out for the silent auction, each with its sheet of paper for bids. At the end of one table, the bid sheet in front of a small bronze sculpture had slipped to the floor. _Or it got knocked off _. . . Mac hurried over, reached down to pick up the paper, forgot the paper in the same moment as his eye caught the sparkle on the floor in front of the emergency exit.

A few shards of glass lay there – in a pattern that indicated the originating point of the scatter had been on the other side of the door. There was a rainbow glint to those sparks of refracted light.

_It's __**crystal**__._

Mac set his fingers against the exit door and pushed gently. It gave under the pressure – it hadn't been fully latched. But no blare of sound came as the door seal was broken. _The alarm's been shut off . . . _

Inside, the plush carpet and creamy stippled walls gave way to bare, utilitarian concrete where an exit stairway plunged down towards the parking garage.

Ruth's cane lay on the bare concrete floor of the landing, the shaft cracked and the crystal knob shattered.



The parking garage was filled with rows of the glossy, new, expensive cars belonging to the wealthy donors at the auction upstairs. Mac had kicked off his dress shoes before he plunged down the exit stairs, fearing the clatter the hard soles would make on the concrete, wishing for tennis shoes instead. Now he darted, noiseless in sock feet, from one car to another.

He spotted Dieter almost immediately, far down one row of cars and closer to the exit ramp than he would have liked. The tall, white-haired form was bent over the open trunk of one of the cars. Mac couldn't see Ruth, and his vision tinged with a red haze of panicked fury when he caught a flash of peacock sparkle and realised Dieter was loading something into his trunk.

Mac didn't know if the man was armed, but it seemed likely. And he was too far away for Mac to have any certainty of reaching him before he had a chance to jump into the car and get away. Once in the driver's seat, there'd be no stopping him.

Chafing at even a moment's delay, Mac crouched behind one of the cars, yanked off the tie Ruth had given him, and fished out his knife, quickly slipping the narrow end of the tie through the keyring on the knife and knotting it. When he peeked out again, Dieter was still bent over the trunk.

Mac stood up, whirling his makeshift bola over his head and letting it fly. Even as it left his hand, he was darting forward and off to the side, closing the distance at full pelt. His aim was off; instead of hitting Dieter, the folded knife cracked into the rear windshield of the next car in line, starring the glass and setting off the car alarm. The garage echoed with the electronic whoop and hoot.

_Be nice if security would come check it out . . . but this __is__ LA._

No security guards appeared. Mac glanced out from behind a car to see where Dieter was, and ducked down again just as quickly. The gun in the man's hand was clearly visible as he swung to face MacGyver.

"Give it up, Dieter!" Mac yelled. "You're blown!"

"Herr MacGyver, is it?" Mac didn't like the note of smug complacency in the man's voice. _He's not gonna hesitate to get rid of two witnesses instead of just one._ Mac's mind shied away from the thought that it might be too late.

"So I should surrender now, after so many years? But I see only you here – and I think you are the one who is known for going off on your own, yes? Half-cocked, I think you call it." Dieter's voice carried clearly over the sound of the alarm, the words crisply spoken in spite of the accent. "I have a pistol pointed at Ruth's head. Step out from behind that car and walk over here with your hands up, or I'll pull the trigger."

Wild, insane relief blazed through MacGyver like a solar flare. _Not dead . . . he hasn't killed her yet . . . unless he's lying . . . _

Mac stood up and walked towards Dieter, his hands raised, feeling his feet in their socks sting as he stepped on the glass shards from the cracked car window. He hardly noticed; beyond Dieter, he could see Ruth's crumpled form lying where he had tumbled her into the trunk. Dieter had one hand clenched in the spangled fabric of Ruth's jacket, holding onto his hostage as he pointed his gun at Mac.

MacGyver quirked an eyebrow at him. "So you're the Professor, huh?" He indicated Ruth with his chin. "You know, if she hit you up for one too many donations, all you had to do was say no."

Dieter glared. "Oh, very funny."

"Naw, not really. You're not laughing." Mac took a step forward, trying to edge closer, but balked when Dieter lifted the gun fractionally. "You were behind all the murder attempts, weren't you? You were right there at the show in San Francisco – no problem to slip down to the garage and mess with the brakes on the Mustang. And Cody wasn't the only skinhead you got in your back pocket; easy enough to get one to attack her – " Mac's dark eyes burned into Dieter's pale ones. His voice turned raw. "_**Why**_??"

"I thought you were supposed to be the clever one." The man's eyes burned, pale blue fire like a blowtorch. "I had no idea she was still alive – she was Ruth Gascoigne then. I hadn't seen her for years, _decades_, not until that damned art exhibition. And there they were, hanging medals around her neck. Sooner or later, she would have recognised me, and it would have been all over – you have no idea how notorious she was, back then. They say she never forgot – or forgave – anyone."

Mac looked past Dieter to where Ruth lay. He saw her face was streaked with blood, matted dark in her silver hair. And he saw the glint from her eyes under almost-closed lids. She was alive – and awake, and watching. Waiting.

"Do you think it's been easy?" Dieter demanded. "Half of Europe went insane after the war. No-one was safe from retribution! Even now, still – I thought the diplomatic posting would be safe – California is halfway round the world! And then that damned Brandenburg bitch turned up, right here . . . "

Mac kept his gaze focused on the gun, but he was watching Ruth in his peripheral vision as she reached up to the interior handle on the underside of the trunk lid.

"Your buddy Schmidt said you tried to sell his paintings to her – and I guess she turned around and blackmailed both of you, huh?"

Dieter's face went black, and he spat. His fingers clenched on the gun in his hand.

"So you had Schmidt shot too, just to keep things tidy?" Mac asked. He tried lowering his hands slightly, but brought them back up when Dieter made a meaningful movement with the gun. He continued, his voice steady and even, a ghost of a smirk on his face. "And then you made off with the fake Rembrandt – you _did_ notice that we dumped a forgery on you, right?"

Dieter's shock was a physical thing, a ripple that ran through him like an earth tremor. Mac dived sideways and ducked around the car beside him as Ruth grasped the interior handle firmly and slammed the trunk lid down on Dieter's left arm.

How much of Dieter's scream was physical pain, and how much was blind rage, was unguessable. The gun went off, the unaimed shot shattering another car window; a second set of ululations joined the first as another car alarm went off.

Howling with rage and pain, Dieter looked around wildly, then raised the gun and aimed at the closed trunk of his own car. From out of nowhere came a bright-coloured flash of fabric that wrapped itself around his right arm, pulling his hand sideways and spoiling his shot. MacGyver had found where his necktie had landed, with the folded knife still tied to the end. The knife was a good enough counterweight to give ample momentum to the spinning line.

There was no friction to the silk fabric of the tie, and it unwrapped itself from Dieter's arm almost as swiftly as it had wrapped, but the moment was enough. Mac leaped out and closed with Dieter, grabbing the man's right hand, slamming it against the side of the car. He thought he felt bones crack as the gun dropped to the concrete underfoot.

Dieter lashed out with his left hand and connected, and Mac tasted blood in his own mouth, coppery and warm. He was still holding the tie by its wide end, the knife dangling on the other; he shifted his feet, drew back slightly, grabbed both ends of the band of fabric and dived on the other man, wrapping the tie around his neck.

Both men rolled on the hard pavement. Mac briefly found himself on his back, with Dieter's weight on top, but he had a solid hold on the necktie and was steadily drawing it tighter, the muscles of his arms and shoulders bunching, his teeth locked in a grimace of rage. The old man toppled sideways as Mac brought more pressure to bear.

Dieter gave up clawing for his fallen gun and brought his hands up to his throat, trying to protect himself. He managed to slip his fingers between his neck and the tightening garotte, but he was no match for Mac's strength and fury; instead, he found that his bony fingers were being pressed into his own windpipe, making deep dents in his own throat.

Through a scarlet haze, Mac watched the face begin to darken and the pale eyes bulge. He could see his own hands, the fingers knotted around the strip of bright fabric, the orange and yellow sunflowers glowing even in the shadows of the poorly lit garage. He seemed to be split in two, somehow separate from himself as he crouched over the choking man. He felt as if he himself had stopped breathing.

From an impossible distance, Mac reached out and loosened his grasp, letting his fingers fall away from the garotte. He stood up and looked down at the old man.

Dieter lay gasping, semiconscious, staring up at the flickering lights overhead. He had clawed at his own neck in his agony, and streaks of blood from his own fingernails mottled his skin and stained the bright flowers on MacGyver's tie.

The trunk had locked shut, and Mac had to dig through Dieter's pockets for the keys to open it. When he threw the lid open, Ruth winced at the sudden glare of light, but still managed to smile up at him.

"MacGyver, you're hurt . . . " She reached out, her gnarled fingers brushing his split lip.

Mac folded her in his arms, unable to speak. He could feel her heart beating, still strong and vibrant.

* * *

_Author's note: many thanks for your patience! Comments deeply welcomed, as always. And no__, it's not quite finished yet . . . epilogue still to come. _


	22. Epilogue: Sketchbook

**Aftershocks**

_**Epilogue: Sketchbook**_



**_~ line ~_**

"_Willis_!"

Pete Thornton almost never needed to raise his voice. There was a particular tone of voice he used when a transgression was serious; anyone who had worked with him for any length of time knew it. If they were lucky, they knew it because they'd heard it used on someone else.

Willis was hearing it now. He'd been caught red-handed at the fax machine. He tried to hide the document behind his back.

"Willis, you _know_ the policy."

"Pete, c'mon. You can't call that a policy!"

"The hell I can't. Where were you sending it?"

"The Western Research Division labs."

Pete held out a peremptory hand for the sheet of paper. "You _know_ the new installments of 'Commando Pete' go to Helen and myself first, before _anyone_ else gets them."

Willis sighed melodramatically as MacGyver came through the doorway and nearly walked into them.

"Hey, did Steffie do another episode?" Mac whisked the sheet of paper away before anyone could stop him. "Cool. Is Willis in this one?"

"No," Willis snapped. "Just as well."

"Aw, don't be like that. Willis the Wizard is a _great_ character. I loved it that time when you hit the computer with your hat – "

"Mac, I hate the hat."

"C'mon. The big wizard hat's just part of it. Anyway, when you hit the computer and it falls over whimpering and starts to tell you all its secrets . . . _great _stuff!"

"Yeah, but you're the one who actually gets to save the whales. You ought to try that for real some day."

"Tangling their harpoons with red tape? It's tempting." Mac scanned the page, and his face fell. "Aw, nuts."

Willis smirked at him in turn. "What's the matter? You don't like what she's done with Mac the Mighty?"

MacGyver made a face, and Pete finally succeeded in retrieving the page and reading it himself. He smiled broadly. "So you lose all your powers if you put on a necktie? I'll have to remember that."



**_~ form ~_**

In the art lab, Addie, Veronica and Gordie were hard at work, shuttling paintings in and out of the vault as the photographer worked away, recording every item in the collection. After an early altercation with Ruth, he had stopped complaining about the poor quality of the shots he was getting of the paintings that hadn't yet been cleaned and restored. He hadn't liked Ruth's offer to shut him up in an underground tunnel for forty years and see how he looked at the end of it – there was a gleam in her eye that made him wonder if she was joking or not.

Laura was standing, arms crossed, gradually wilting under Ruth's loquacity.

"The academic process is all very well, and I trust you to make an watertight job of it. But it's high time we let the rest of the art world in on the fun – especially since publication _now_ will put the collection firmly in the spotlight of history. The next band of acquisitive thugs won't have the presumed safety net of insufficient documentation." Ruth patted her hand. "And you needn't worry about Phoenix' reputation, my dear. If we're accused of jumping the gun on publication in an egomaniacal search for unsubstantiated glory, well, we can take the lumps. You shall have the joy of blazing our trail into art history. And you can take as long as you need. Be thorough. There's no hurry."

"What about the funding for the project?"

"No fears there. Joseph Goldman has flung himself behind us, heart, soul, and wallet. And Douglas Carmichael was so delighted at Stephanie's coup with Erich Hartmann that he hasn't simply renewed his annual gifting pledge; he's increased it."

Laura glanced over at where Rafé and Stephanie were sitting, well out of the way of the scurry of activity. "How are they taking it?"

**_~ composition ~_**

Rafé and Stephanie were sitting with their hands clasped tightly under the table. Stephanie was wearing a t-shirt reproduction of Munch's 'The Scream', and felt like it.

"I could turn it down . . . " she began miserably.

"Don' you _dare_," Rafé replied fiercely. "You an' me, we'll deal. But you ain't gonna walk away from an opportunity like this jus' cause a' me, you hear?"

"But – "

"You think I could live with myself if you did that? No _way_. Opportunity ain't nothin' to blow off." He squeezed her hand. "Don' you go off the deep end on me. I need you, baby. I got all them scholarship applications I gotta fill out. Else Ruth gonna have my ass, and MacGyver gonna chew up anything she leave behind." Rafé leaned over and nuzzled Stephanie's neck, murmuring into her ear, "It's okay, baby. Come clean. It's excitin', ain't it? You gonna be makin' a real difference. Don' you think that matters to me?"

Stephanie turned back to him, tears spangling her cheeks, and threw her arms around him. "Why can't you come too?"

" 'Cause I don' speak German. But tha's okay. If what we got is real, it ain't gonna go away jus' cause you got a job an' I got to get ready to go to college." Rafé eyes lit up, and Stephanie basked in the glow. "_College_, man! Can you believe it? The closest anyone in my family ever got to college was when my uncle got hired as janitor at the community college."

Stephanie buried her head in his shoulder. "Rafé, is it all right that it's exciting? Really, really amazing? I'll miss you, you know, and Addie . . . but . . . "

"But you gonna be back in the fall for college yourself, an' you gonna tell us all about it." Rafé grinned. "You gonna have to check out the music scene while you in Germany hangin' with all them art eggheads, or Addie gonna take back all her clothes you borrowed."

Stephanie giggled. "Hopefully by then, I'll have stuff of my own that doesn't make me look like the Preppy Queen of Puritania."

**_~ perspective ~_**

By the time MacGyver and Pete reached the lab, Ruth had worn Laura down to a compliant nub. Even Gordie seemed subdued, and the photographer was keeping a low profile. Pete studied Ruth with a worried frown.

"You sure you're going to be all right?"

"Relax, Pete. We'll be fine."

"Well, call me if there's anything I can do? Hell, call me even if there isn't anything I can do."

Ruth gave him a long-suffering look. "Really, Pete, I'd have thought you'd be glad to see the last of me."

Pete shook his head at her and embraced her.

Laura followed suit. "You're going home?"

"We're headed back to the Bay Area tonight, at last. And I am going to steal Addie for a few days, if she can bear to be parted from her new light o' love."

MacGyver raised an eyebrow. Laura smiled. "It seems Officer Wyatt has a younger brother who's a studio musician. He's also got a sister who does publicity for one of the studios, and a cousin who's a jazz musician, and another cousin who's a producer." She tallied them on her fingers. "Between them, they can score any number of backstage passes to all kinds of obscure little shows, or sneak her into recording sessions. She's even started talking about doing designs for album covers. Sorry, MacGyver, I'm afraid you've been replaced."

Mac's face lost the trace of a hunted expression that had haunted him every time he dropped in at the art lab.

Pete turned to Ruth. "I hear they've decided to send Dieter von Schüssel back to Germany for trial."

Ruth nodded. "Attempted murder would have been a bit tricky to pull off in the US courts – and I confess to feeling a certain satisfaction. I gather he's spent years dreading the spectre of Germany's post-war wrath, and I for one relish the notion that he'll end up facing it after all."

Mac broke in. "And you still don't remember him?"

"Not at all; he's a complete blank. As I told you, it's _people_ I remember, not faces or names. I seem to have been a victim of my own inflated reputation. Not to mention that man's inflated ego."

Pete crooked a sardonic smile. "And he was so convinced that he'd made an indelible impression on you."

"Well, he did on Henry. But Henry was the one who could always remember names. They did meet, you know, in Berlin, just after the war – he was Dieter Schulmeister then. He'd been with the ERR in France and Italy, so he _had_ been through my stomping grounds – I dare say I did meet him, at some point. But I'm damned if I can remember him."

"Do you think he'd have gone after Henry next?" Pete asked bluntly.

Ruth's face hardened. "Very likely."

Mac felt his skin prickle. _Just as well Dieter's headed for Germany . . . he'll be out of Ruth's reach, anyway. Probably._

Ruth had turned to him, her smile no longer shrouded with old shadows. "MacGyver, before I forget – I have a present for you. Two presents, in fact."

Mac looked at her warily. "No ties, I hope?"

She raised her cane and buffeted him lightly on the arm. "Not after you took such poor care of the last one!" She handed him a slim volume, bound in gold-stamped leather. "It's Weisenthal's _The Sunflower_. You've never read it, have you?"

"No. You said it's about forgiveness, right?"

"Not exactly." Ruth drew a deep breath. "It's really about the limitations of forgiveness. You'll see when you read it – the whole point is that Weisenthal _wasn't_ able to forgive, when he was asked to do so – asked under appalling circumstances. After all, some things are unforgivable. Or ought to be. I've never aspired to sainthood myself."

"Me neither." Mac eyed her. "So what's the other present?"

"Something I should have done long since, I dare say . . . that inner-city organisation of yours – "

"You mean the Challengers Club?"

"That's the one. I gather their funding is somewhat haphazard – well, I hope you don't mind, but I'm putting out a few feelers on your behalf, down here in the LA area. With a bit of luck, we should be able to pull together an endowment fund for them – mind you, it won't do much more than help pay the rent and keep the lights on, but at the very least it ought to make the load a trifle easier to carry – _ouff!_" Ruth's running commentary was lost in a squashed exclamation as Mac picked her up bodily in an enthusiastic hug.



**_~ colour ~_**

Laura didn't actually own a lot of stuff. Even with everything unpacked – 'everything' turned out to be mostly books, plus clothes and art supplies – all the books loaded onto newly purchased bookcases, there was plenty of space left in the now reasonably tidy apartment to set up one corner of the living room as an art studio.

Mac was biting his tongue in his concentration. He was working on a gouache landscape; Laura was working on her diplomacy.

It had actually been a genuine relief to discover that there was something the über-competent MacGyver wasn't good at. His drawing skill was rudimentary at best – he had admitted that he'd never needed to do any sketching beyond engineering doodles and rough maps. As for painting – his sense of colour was just about what she should have expected, after seeing some of his more garish shirts. But it had come as a surprise anyway.

"So . . . " Mac glanced sideways at her, trying to keep his voice casual. "It's been a few days. You had any more nightmares about guys with guns?"

To his delight, he was rewarded with an unshadowed smile. "My therapist taught me a new trick – have you ever heard of active dream transformation?"

"No, but I get the idea."

"Well, he said that I needed to find an image of my own inner power, and use that directly against the dream image the next time it appeared."

"And . . . ?"

"The second night after you'd left, I was half asleep and started to have the dream – and when the gunman got within range – I hit him over the head with a copy of my thesis."

Mac blinked. "Whoa. Remind me not to get you angry."

"I don't think you've got much to worry about," Laura laughed.

As Mac turned back to his painting, she studied his work, looking for something she could praise without hypocrisy. He was working on a mountain scene – sweeping forested slopes under a cloud-mottled sky. The technique was clumsy and amateurish, but it was heartfelt. She watched him pick up a finer brush and add in a soaring bird with a few careful strokes.

"That's good. You're improving – you're really putting your heart into it." That would work – it was honest, and the vagueness wasn't too obvious.

She was rewarded with a smile as heartfelt as the painting, and far more glorious.

"Really? You're not just sayin' that?"

"I did tell you this wasn't my strong suit – if you really want to learn to paint, you should go take some classes."

Laura never tired of watching MacGyver's face – the mobile features, the expressive eyebrows; and when she caught him in a thoughtful mood, the dark velvet eyes seemed to go on forever. Watching that face shut down so suddenly was a wrench.

"Actually, I did take a painting class for a while . . . it was a couple of years ago." Mac looked down at his brush, feeling her eyes on him. He twiddled it in his hand, wishing he'd evaded the subject. Too late now. "I kinda stopped going after one of the other students tried to kill me."

Laura blanched and her lips tightened. Mac wondered if it was for his sake or her own – another demon added to the legions she'd already faced.

"Was it personal?" she asked softly.

"It was for me."

Laura watched the walls go up, and her heart sank. She bit her lip and looked at the painting Mac had been working on. He was poking at one of the trees with the brush, clumsily stippling the leaves with the wrong shade of green, not really seeing the colours in front of him. She took a deep breath. "I don't know what kind of class it was, but trust me, Mac. Your painting isn't _that_ bad."

Mac's head snapped up to look at her, and incredibly, in a moment, the wall melted. He gave her a shaky smile, blinking a few times, fighting not to look away. Laura walked over, plucked the paintbrush from his hand and tossed it aside, and reached up and cupped his face, drawing his mouth down to hers. She felt a dampness on her cheeks, but wasn't sure whether it was her own tears or not.

The brushes were left to stiffen and dry next to the forgotten painting. In the morning, Laura would have to decide whether to throw them out or try to salvage them for MacGyver's next painting lesson.

**_~ light ~_**

Afterwards, Mac fell into a dreamless sleep, his face calm and relaxed, one arm crooked around Laura; he didn't stir when she roused herself some time later. She lay for a while, running a slow, grateful hand over the warm planes of his body, stroking the sandy waves of his hair. At last, she carefully sat up and reached for the sketchpad that she'd been keeping beside the bed.

MacGyver's eyes flickered open, dreamily looking at her from under long lashes. It was some time before his drowsy brain identified the scratching sounds.

He sat up, blinking, shaking the long hair out of his eyes. She had quickly hidden the tablet, but he looked at her suspiciously. "You were sketchin' me while I was sleeping, weren't you? Again?"

"It's the only time you stay still for long enough!"

Mac rolled onto his back and threw an arm over his face. "Aw, _man_ . . . " He could feel himself reddening, and when he realised it must show over more than just his face, he felt himself blush even harder.

Laura tossed the pencil aside, and reached out to him again.

This time, there was no drowsiness afterwards, only a comfortable glow that led easily into meandering conversation.

"I missed you. Did your romp through the mountains go well? What was it for again?"

"Earthquake studies. Pete signed me up for it – it's a whole series. I've been doin' them on and off for months now."

Laura gave him a wicked grin. "So. Did the earth move for you?"

Mac gave her a long, meaningful look. "You bet."

The phone had rung, some time in the last . . . hour? Laura had ignored it and MacGyver had been glad to do the same. Now, she finally rolled out of bed, located her robe on its hook on the back of the door, and walked out into the living room. Mac heard the electronic squawk as she checked the answering machine.

When she reappeared in the bedroom doorway, her shoulders were slumped. Mac sat up in worried alarm. "Has something happened . . .?"

She shrugged and leaned heavily against the doorframe. "No, no, nothing's actually happened. Mac, would you relax? Please? No-one's been attacked or kidnapped or carried off by desperadoes or anything." She drew a deep breath.

MacGyver frowned. "Okay, so nobody needs rescuing right now. What's wrong? You look, well . . . "

"It's _nothing_!" She bit her lip. "It's just – they've changed my schedule, and they waited till now to tell me. I have to leave tomorrow for Germany. I'll be gone – oh, hell, I have no idea – if things go well, it could be weeks." She looked at Mac as if expecting an explosion.

Instead, when she met his eyes, she saw a sheepish expression where she had expected resentment or anger. Mac quirked his mouth.

"Um . . . I – Laura, I've been kinda puttin' off telling you – I have to leave tomorrow too. The next phase of the earthquake project . . . " He held up a hand as if he thought she needed placating. "I was gonna tell you! I just – I didn't want to ruin things."

Laura frowned in puzzlement. "You only just got back in town. Don't they ever let you catch your breath?"

MacGyver shrugged. "I thought I'd have a few more days, but they moved my schedule up." He looked at Laura almost peevishly. "What the heck are you grinning at?"

It was Laura's turn to look sheepish. "Mac, the last guy I dated – well, maybe 'dating' isn't quite the right term – at any rate, we split up because he got mad about my schedule. I was traveling a lot of the time, and I'd see him between trips. The funny thing was, when we first got involved, he swore that was what he wanted – but after a while, he started getting angry because he said I wasn't 'making time' for him." She shrugged away from the doorframe, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her robe. "I got really angry at him for changing his tune like that – we never really got back on track afterwards. He just didn't understand." She lifted an eyebrow. "So which godforsaken corner of the world are they sending you to this time?"

"Iceland first – they've been involved with the earthquake project from the beginning – then Italy. Down south, near Naples – where the big quake was a few years back."

"You're kidding." Laura's eyes were dancing.

"Why should I? What's up?"

"Well, I'm headed for Germany first – I have to meet with some museum directors, and turn Stephanie over to my counterpart in Berlin. I only hope we don't end up with an international incident provoked by naïve caricaturing. After that . . . " Laura glided back towards the bed. "After that, I'm headed for Naples. Then Israel, but not for a few weeks; I'm going to be meeting with the Italian Minister of Culture. Their art recovery project has really fallen apart in the last few years – they used to be the best in Europe – and we might be able to light a fire under them. How long are you going to be chasing Italian earthquakes?"

"Three weeks at least."

"Think they might be able to spare you for a few days in all that? You'll be practically in the cradle of the Renaissance – surely you can take a little time off for some art appreciation?"

MacGyver's response was a smile that lit up the room. He reached out and caught at the sash of her robe, tugging at it gently. The loose knot fell apart, and he held on to the ends of the sash and drew her towards him, sliding his hands underneath the fabric once she was within reach. "Oh, trust me. I appreciate it."



~ _fin ~_

* * *

The only real figure in this story is Earl Powell, director of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art from 1980 to 1992.

The artists are all real; the works of art described are all imaginary.

The burning of the Flakturm Friedrichstein at the end of WWII was an historic event, an episode described in Robert Adams' _The Lost Museum_. Unfortunately, no items are known to have survived.



_**Acknowledgements:**_

As always, I am deeply indebted to the people who helped, encouraged, listened, advised, and read:

**Lothithil**, for enablement, enthusiasm, encouragement, not to mention squeeage  
**Melissa**, for enablement, enthusiasm, encouragement, inspiration, and having a King James Bible handy just when I needed it  
**Robin** and **Liz**, for the Mustang (and Liz for the finer details of the 'bootlegger's turn')  
**Deb**, for the San Francisco geography and topology  
**Jess**, who gave invaluable help with medical research  
**Liz** again, who vetted the artillery, with added help from **Glenn**  
**Astra** and **Georgia**, who kept my German correct  
**Glenn**, who kept my Southern correct  
**Trix**, who told me about the Heide (and sent pictures!)

Thanks, everyone -- you all totally _rock_.



**_Selected bibliography:_**

Art and art crime:

Adams, Robert. _The Lost Museum: Glimpses of Vanished Originals  
_Conklin, John E. _Art Crime  
_Esterow, Milton. _The Art Stealers  
_Houpt, Simon. _Museum of the Missing: A History of Art Theft  
_McLeave, Hugh. _Rogues In the Gallery: The Modern Plague of Art Theft  
_Watson, Peter. _The Caravaggio Conspiracy_

Other:

_Blood in the Face_ (documentary): Anne Bohlen, Kevin Rafferty and James Ridgeway (directors); book by James Ridgeway.

Bushart, Howard, with John R. Craig and Myra Barnes, Ph.D. _Soldiers of God: White Supremacists and Their Holy War for America_

Thomas, Gordon. _Gideon's Spies: The Secret History of the Mossad_

* * *

_I hope you enjoyed the story. Comments are deeply appreciated, as always._

_'Beth  
__April 2009_


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